


Beginning of your Meaning

by sara_holmes



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Brainwashed Sniper Bros, M/M, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, Post-Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie), Safehouses, Self-Discovery, Sokovia Accords
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-10
Updated: 2018-07-21
Packaged: 2018-12-13 15:22:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 67,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11762751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sara_holmes/pseuds/sara_holmes
Summary: Bucky Barnes' voyage of self-discovery: working out who he used to be,  who he is now, and what the hell Captain America wants from either of those people.(Bucky Barnes would like it on record that Steve Rogers is thoroughly problematic and that Clint Barton is certifiably insane.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this is my first real foray into Bucky POV fic, please be gentle with me. Thank you to [Menatiera](https://menatiera.tumblr.com/) and [my favourite crazy dragon lady](https://27dragons.tumblr.com) for their beta work, cheerleading and for giving me faith in my Bucky Voice.
> 
> Title cheerfully swiped from 'Kitchen Sink' by Twenty-One Pilots.

Looking back on it, it was easy for Bucky to see that while the beginning of the end had commenced during the firefight on the bridge in DC, things had  _ really _ started to change during the firefight on the Helicarriers. It was in that moment when the man from the bridge had stood there and said  _ “Bucky,” _ in such a hopelessly lost voice, and the Asset had felt something inside his brain lurch out of place like missing a step when creeping down a stairwell in the dark. 

And then, the dominoes had really started to fall. 

The Captain had somehow sensed the Asset’s entire world ping out of place and he'd gone after it like a damn heat seeking missile. 

“Help me, Buck. Please, we gotta stop this. So many people are gonna die, we can’t let that happen. Please.  _ Bucky. _ ”

And then. 

And then the Asset remembers running, tail tucked firmly between his legs. Remembers fighting his way off the helicarrier and back through the building, the Captain catching up with him in the atrium. Remembers fighting side by side with him: one man trying to end the fight and one man trying to run from it. 

The beginning of the end had ended on the banks of the Potomac. The soaked to the bone but no less noble Captain reaching out for him as the fallen helicarriers spewed out smoke in the distance, sirens wailing across both shores. 

“No,” the Asset had said, panicking. He’d stepped back away from the Captain then, slipping on mud and gravel even as he fought the desperate urge to fling himself into the Captain's arms. 

And the Captain's shoulders had slumped and he'd turned away, exhausted and close to tears even though he was trying not to let the Asset see. One red-gloved hand had come to to scrub at the Captain’s dirt and tear streaked face, like if he clenched his eyes and scrubbed hard enough, everything would just go away.

The Asset had recognised that desire, at least.

“You need to go, they'll arrest you,” the Captain had said, and looked up through damp yet fierce eyes that were shockingly, distressingly familiar. “Do not let them, this was  _ not you _ . You hear me, Bucky? Come with me and I’ll-”

And as the Asset had fled, he'd felt not his brain breaking into yet another confused and sharp-edged piece, but his heart.

 

* * *

 

He lasts thirteen months, two weeks and six days.

During those months and weeks, the Asset keeps himself hidden in the shadows, tentatively wearing the name “Bucky” after he finds it attached to his face in a museum. Starts to think of himself as the man the Captain knew, even though that young soldier seems a million miles away at times. 

Other times, he’s right there under the surface.

He keeps one eye out for Hydra, the other for the Captain.  _ Steve _ , the museum tells him. The name settles much more easily than his own did for him. However, even though the name settles, the whole concept of Captain - Steve - America doesn’t. Bucky doesn’t like to think about it too hard, the way he starts to think about Steve rather than the Captain, the way his insides seem to feel all swollen and bent out of shape every time he hears about Steve on the radio or the TV.

When he sees the footage from the Avengers fighting robots and saving the world in Sokovia, he finds himself wanting to cry and he can't explain it but he knows it’s something to do with Steve. 

In a fashion that feels inherently right to the whole concept of  _ Steve, _ the man is proving problematic for Bucky despite not seeing him in half a year and not knowing him for even longer. 

  
  


* * *

Bucky’s in a market in Bucharest when his luck runs out, living among the battered concrete of leftover communism, hiding in plain sight among the civilians. It’s a regular day, grey skies and grey sidewalks and going through the equally dull motions of existing. He turns away from the fruit stall he’d been warily perusing to come nose to nose with a recognizable face - blond hair and grey eyes and a slightly amused smile. 

_ Not Steve _ , is his first thought. 

“There you are,” the not-Steve man says, in English. No, not English.  _ American _ .

Bucky doesn’t say anything back. He’s terrified and not too proud to admit it. His brain is frantically rifling through it’s travesty of a filing system, casting aside memories and names and faces as he tries to work out who the blond man is and how the hell he managed to sneak up on him.

The man lowers his voice, looks at Bucky deadly serious. “Come with me if you want to live.” 

Bucky can’t help it; he blanches, feels the blood drain from his face. He must look obviously horrified because the guy quickly drops the serious act and hastily throws up a hand. “No, no, I didn’t mean it!” he says. “I’m joking, it’s a line from a film, you’re fine.”

The man pauses and winces, seesawing his hand. “Well, maybe not fine?” he says, voice lilting up like it’s a question. “Some old friends are coming into town and I thought me and you could have a catch up before they got here.”

Bucky still hasn’t said a word, caught in that perfectly still moment before fight or flight.

“I reckon their flight gets into tomorrow,” the man continues, grey eyes fixed on Bucky’s. He doesn’t look scared in the slightest. “Look, they sent me a picture, they look like they’re having a great time.”

And he carefully takes his phone out of his pocket and flicks to a picture, handing the phone towards Bucky. After a pause that lasts a lifetime, Bucky reaches out and takes it. He looks at the picture and his stomach sinks. He knows those faces. Those faces are not his friends.

He hands the phone back and weighs up his options. If he assumes this man is a threat, he can either run from him or fight him. This man obviously hasn’t found it too hard to sneak up on him, which means he’s got skills, which then means running or fighting might cause a scene. Frankly, part of Bucky wants to punch him right in his almost-smiling mouth for having the nerve to sneak up on the goddamn Winter Soldier. 

He doesn’t.

He keeps thinking. This man says the unfriendly faces know where he is. So if he believes this man, Hydra are about to cause a scene whether Bucky likes it or not. If he decides to ally himself with smirking blond not-Steve, he might be able to avoid that. 

“I’m Clint,” the man says. “Hawkeye.”

And it fits. Images and words pulled from the mess of his brain, matching up to tell him that this man is an Avenger. He was in all the newspapers when the world nearly ended in Sokovia. This man works with Steve.

“Does - Does the Captain know you’re here?”

Clint shakes his head. “No,” he shrugs. “Some of my colleagues - not Steve’s colleagues - worked out where you were. I thought I’d get you safely out of the way before I called Captain Reckless.”

“He’s the best strategist in the world,” Bucky says, quoting the news reporter that he’d watched rave about Steve a few weeks ago. To his surprise, it comes out sounding like he’s defending the good Captain.

“Unless it’s about  _ you _ ,” Clint says, pointing at him and grinning. “Come on. I’ve got a jet. No passports needed. Let’s get you out of here before your friends or Cap get here and make things difficult.”

Bucky looks around. Takes in the hustle and bustle of the market, looks back at the shabby apartment block that he’s been hiding in.

“Okay,” he says, feeling vulnerable and exhausted and like he’s stepping off of the edge of a cliff. “Let me get my stuff and we’ll go.”

Clint looks both pleased and relieved. Maybe he thought it would come down to making a scene. Bucky would be happy not making a scene ever again to be quite honest. 

“Sure,” Clint says. “Lead the way.”

 

* * *

Four hours, two trams and one short hike later and they’re on board a jet, lifting off into the purpling dusk. 

“Say goodbye to Romania,” Clint says, sitting in the pilot’s seat and calmly flipping switches. He looks completely at ease, like picking up wanted fugitives from across Europe is something he does every day.

Bucky doesn't bother saying anything to Romania. Instead, he talks to Clint. “Where are we going?”

Clint just grins. “Home.”

 

* * *

Home turns out to be neither Brooklyn nor Siberia, two place names that had fluttered out of drawers in Bucky's broken filing cabinet brain at the mention of ‘home’. 

Home turns out to be the middle of nowhere, Iowa. 

“What?” Clint asks as he powers down the jet in the overgrown back yard of a dilapidated farmhouse. “I meant my home, not yours. Even though I've not been here in twenty years, it still counts.”

“I didn't say anything,” Bucky says, voice hoarse after too long not saying anything. 

“Your face did,” Clint says. “I'm a little insulted that you don't seem to be thrilled at the prospect of landing in the middle of nowhere.”

Bucky tries to think of something to say. This guy seems to expect conversation from him, has yet to stop talking at him. An observation about how isolated this place seems? A question about how safe it is, or how many people know that they are here? A joke? A threat?

This communicating business is hard.

He swallows, goes for something that might fall between a joke or an observation. “There's more here than there is in Siberia.”

Clint cackles at that. A joke it was, than. “Yeah at least there's no snow here. Just corn, corn and more corn.”

They climb off the jet, Bucky clutching his backpack to his chest even though he's pretty sure they're alone. Aside from the old farmhouse, he can see two outbuildings, one possibly large enough to be classed as a barn; a wide back yard with a clothesline hung between a gnarled tree and a rusted old basketball hoop; miles and miles of fields, as far as he can see. Finally, there's a dusty track - not sure if it even counts as a road - leading away from the farmhouse between two of the fields. He wonders where it goes. 

It feels like a completely alien world. Not peaceful, he’s too tightly wound for that, but possibly calm. The smell of the baking earth and the grass, the feel of the sun beating down on them. Even the sounds - swishing grass and insects chirping, the faint cries of birds and not much else.

“Okay?” Clint asks. 

Bucky just nods, scanning the landscape from underneath the peak of his cap. He supposes he is. He's not hurt, he's out of the way of an imminent Hydra themed surprise party and he's safe. 

It's just… The way things keep happening to him. It makes him wonder if he's going to be a passenger in his own life for the rest of all eternity. Or for however long he lasts. 

“Does-” he begins, then abruptly decides not to say  _ Steve _ out loud again in case it summons the man. Stranger things have happened, Bucky can attest to that. “Does anyone know I’m here?”

Clint side-eyes him, walking towards the barn, the grass swishing around his knees. “I’m going to jump to a conclusion and assume you’re asking about Steve,” he says and Bucky’s stomach jolts. “None of the actual official Avengers know you are here,” he says. “None of the actual official Avengers know that I was tracking you or coming to get you. The government would not be happy if they knew so no-one knows except me and maybe two other people.”

“You are an Avenger though,” Bucky says. With no better options in sight, he follows Clint towards the barn. “I saw you on the news. In Sokovia.”

Clint pauses, hands on the barn door. He heaves out a sigh, head dropping down between his shoulders. “Ahh, Sokovia,” he mutters. “What a shit-show that’s turned out to be.”

He lifts his head again and as he does, Bucky spots the flash of purple tucked inside the shell of his ear. He feels his whole body goes tense, left hand clenching into a fist and right reaching involuntarily for a knife that no longer lives against his thigh.

_ This man is a friend _ , he tells himself, though he’s not sure he’s listening. He wills himself calm, tries to stop himself panicking or reacting in some terribly violent way. 

“Who is the comm linked to?” he blurts out.

Clint frowns, lifts his hand to his ear. “Uh, it’s not a comm unit,” he says. “Hearing aids. I’m mostly deaf.”

The fear resides, though it’s replaced by an anxious voice that says that this man is vulnerable, is weak.  _ He can’t be that weak,  _ Bucky reasons with himself.  _ He holds his own next to Steve.  _ “Oh.”

“Yeah, oh,” Clint says and grabs hold of the barn door, heaving it open. The hinges scream and Bucky winces, shaking his head involuntarily. Clint doesn’t seem bothered by the noise, though with the new intel Bucky can suppose that maybe he didn’t even hear it properly. 

“So yeah I am technically an Avenger,” Clint says, grunting with effort as he hauls the door all the way open. “But I got fingers in a few pies. And my extensive knowledge of pie says that you are an ingredient that the Avengers really do not need in their pie right now.”

It takes Bucky a moment to parse through the pie metaphor. He’s a tiny bit reassured once he manages it, though it doesn’t ease all of his suspicion.

“Why do you even care about me right now?”

Clint turns his attention to the second door, setting his feet apart and squaring his shoulders like he’s about to fight it. “You were brainwashed,” he says, like it’s obvious. “Ergo you are technically a prisoner of war and ergo I am helping you. Ergo. Is that the right word? It sounded like the right word.”

“I think so,” Bucky says slowly, unable to shift his unease and the sense that he doesn’t deserve all this help. “I’ve done terrible things.”

Clint heaves the second door open and grins at Bucky over his shoulder. “Pal, haven’t we all.”

* * *

 

 

Bucky helps stow the jet in the barn and then follows Clint into the farmhouse. It’s obviously not been lived in properly in years, though Bucky spots kitchen surfaces that have been wiped clear of dust, a backpack on the table next to a six-pack of coke and a brown grocery bag.

“I literally had time to check the place over before I had to come to get you,” Clint says, pulling the door shut behind him and going to grab one of the cokes. He pulls it free and offers it to Bucky. Bucky stands and stares at it and then nods jerkily, reaching out to snatch it from Clint.

“It’s...it’s not completely secure,” Clint admits. “But it’s off the grid and doesn’t legally exist.”

Bucky looks around, shoulders hunched up by his ears. He’s already having palpitations thinking about the lockless windows and the raised porch, too easy for people to creep beneath. 

“You wanna...sit down?” Clint says, pointing through the kitchen doorway to a sitting room. “Or you want to do a completely over the top sweep of the building and build some traps in the doorways?”

Bucky blinks at him. “The second one.”

Clint rolls his eyes. “You assassins are so predictable,” he says. “I take it you’re not gonna put the backpack down? No? Okay. You want me to come with you?”

“No,” Bucky says. “I want - I mean...”

He trails off, helpless, but Clint doesn’t seem to give a damn about this either. “Okay, knock yourself out,” he says. “I’m going to stay in here and cook something up. If you want me to move out so you can check the kitchen, let me know.”

Bucky nods mutely. Clint salutes him sloppily and then turns to the grocery bag, humming tunelessly to himself. Bucky watches him for long enough to ascertain that he really is going to make something to eat and then he doubles back to the door, intending to check the entire place from the outside in.

He finds the decking around the house is rotten through in places, leaving holes that are definitely big enough to hide anything from a backpack to a whole person beneath. Two of the windows open easily from the outside and the roof is missing a distressing number of shingles. The front door is secure as far as civilian standards go but the back door doesn’t look like it could withstand a strong breeze.

Inside it’s not much better. He finds eight different entry points and plots out five different escape routes depending on how they come for him, memorizing the layout of each. The floorboards creak something awful and the walls are thin enough that he thinks a non-powered person would be able to put a fist or foot through with minimal effort. The layout downstairs is a nightmare; a fully open space set around the stairs. The kitchen is in one corner, leading to a sitting room then what could have been a dining room in a past life. A single story extension houses a utility and cramped downstairs bathroom. Upstairs there’s a bathroom, four bedrooms of varying size and an attic which is full of junk, covered in a lifetime worth of dust and cobwebs. A single round window lets in a feeble amount of light and it makes Bucky feel unnervingly like he’s being watched. 

It’s no fortress, but he thinks it will do.

He gravitates towards a bedroom at the back of the house, mostly because it’s one of two that actually have beds in and it provides the best view of the stairs and landing. An added bonus is that outside his window is the roof of the utility, which will be helpful in the event of a quick exit. 

He’s staring out of the window when he hears a shout of his name from downstairs. He carefully sets his backpack atop the bed and his can of coke on the rickety bedside table, then heads towards the door, very aware that he’s making a statement in leaving it there.

When he gets back downstairs, Clint is dishing up two bowls of chili and the smell makes Bucky’s stomach growl. He feels almost faint with hunger, not that he’s noticed while he’s been busy mapping the place out.

“It’s a shithole, right?” Clint says cheerfully, wiping his sweaty brow with a dishtowel. “We can do whatever we need to it to make it more secure.”

Bucky edges towards the table, eyes fixed on the food. “Knock it down and start again?” he says without thinking.

Clint laughs. “You’ve got a sense of humor, who knew,” he says, and shoves a bowl over towards Bucky. “Come on, freshly made white-boy chili, so not too spicy. Eat.”

Bucky sits down at the table, one eye fixed on the door, and he does.

* * *

 

 

That night, Bucky goes up to the room he’s claimed, sits on the bed and stares out of the window. It’s so hot that he’s still sweating even though the sun’s gone down. He can feel the pressure in the air, making him feel jittery and claustrophobic.

At some point in the depths of the night, the pressure crests then breaks and the pitch-black of the sky is lit up by the biggest lightning storm Bucky has ever seen. The whole sky flashes and rumbles with thunder so loud that Bucky feels it vibrating in his chest. It makes him feel uneasy, sick in the pit of his stomach as the thunder overlaps with disjointed memories of bombs and mortars in another time and place, one that he can’t quite pin down. The rain follows afterwards, lashing down with such force that Bucky thinks that the house will collapse under the onslaught. 

He falls asleep just as the storm abates, exhausted enough to ignore the lingering rumbles of thunder and the plip of raindrops falling into the room through the busted ceiling. Just before his eyes slide closed, he has a strange irrational thought that if he survives this night then maybe he can survive anything. 

* * *

 

 

The morning dawns bright and warm and already drying out from the storm. Everything is still standing and the standing water is already evaporating as if the storm never happened in the first place.

Bucky Barnes wakes with infinitely less grace: a strangled gasp and a full-body flail that takes him up off of his mattress. The maneuver finds him promptly pitched onto worn floorboards as he’s not on his mattress in Bucharest anymore, but a proper bed in a farmhouse in the middle of nowhere, Iowa.

Heart hammering, he sits with his back pressed against the wall and takes a moment to sort his brain out. Not with Hydra. Not in Europe. With an Avenger. Possibly safe. Possibly dreaming.

_ Survived the rainstorm though, _ he thinks dazedly, looking around to assess the damage. There’s an obvious damp patch on the wall where something has been leaking, the paper bubbling and peeling away to reveal the wood beneath. Other than that, everything seems okay.

He crawls over to the window, back still pressed to the wall as he takes a cautious glance outside, jerking back just in case. There’s no answering gunfire or yelling so he carefully does it again, blinking hard in the sunlight. It’s already so hot out-

There’s a figure in the backyard. Bucky drops to the floor, chest against the floorboards and hands over his head. Breathing in and out through his mouth, he simultaneously tries to still the rabbit-quick thudding of his heart and find the name that goes with that face.

_ Clint. _

“You fucking idiot,” he tells himself, banging his forehead lightly against the floor. Hoping Clint didn’t notice, he pushes himself back up, kneeling beside the window with his fingers curled around the sill. Clint hasn’t seen him, or is doing a good job of pretending he hasn’t, busy with pulling planks of wood out of the back of a busted red pickup. He slides two out at a time and carries them over to the house, disappearing under the porch with them then returning to get some more.

Bucky waits for way too long before he remembers that there will be no-one coming to instruct him on what to do. Kicking himself, he stands up and pushes the window open. 

“Clint.”

Clint wheels around, grinning up at the window. “Morning sunshine,” he calls. “You were dead out asleep so I decided to suck up the four hour drive and went and got some supplies-”

Bucky’s response is to immediately drop like he’s a puppet with strings cut, sitting back down again out of view of the window. Panic is setting in because a) from that he can infer that Clint saw him asleep and vulnerable b) he’s been alone in this place that isn’t secure c) Clint has gone to where people are and come back which means a trail to follow and d) Clint still isn’t  _ fucking scared of him or what he can do. _

He doesn’t know if its minutes or hours later when a knock at his door pulls him back to the present. He doesn’t answer but the door opens anyway, squeaking softly as Clint sticks his head in. His eyes slide down to where Bucky is still sitting on the floor but he doesn't look surprised. “Hi?”

“I could have had a weapon,” Bucky says flatly, gesturing at Clint. “And you just stick your head around the door like that?”

Clint shrugs, edging the rest of him into the room. “Well you’re not planning on shooting me, are you?”

“I never planned to shoot anyone!” Bucky snaps. “But - I’m the Winter Soldier and you just bought me into your home and give me food and stick your head around the door like a goddamn target-”

All of his mounting anger bleeds away as Clint literally rolls his eyes at him and comes to sit down near him, cross-legged. He drums his fingers against the wooden floorboards: four of them have band-aids wrapped around that weren’t there the day before.  “I’m not saying I’m going to leave you unattended with any kitchen knives or power tools but I’m not scared of you,” he says frankly. “I feel bad for what happened to you but you’re not the scariest assassin I’ve ever hid in a safehouse, so.”

“You do this often?”

Clint seesaws his hand. “More often than any sane person should.”

Bucky doesn’t have a lot to say to that. It’s fine: Clint can talk for the both of them. “There is a breakfast sandwich assembled on the counter downstairs and some truly terrible black coffee, both for you to eat,” Clint says. “I’m going back outside to unload the truck. You can come out and help or you can stay inside. You want to hug it out before I go?”

This man is  _ insane _ , Bucky is sure of it. “No,” he says after he’s managed to unstick his throat, whole body going tense and nauseous at the thought of being touched. “I’d rather you didn’t.”

“Sure,” Clint says, climbing to his feet. “The last assassin liked being hugged, thought I’d check.”

And with that he’s gone, leaving Bucky alone with his confused-even-by-his-standards thoughts.

* * *

 

 

It takes Bucky a decent amount of time to find the balls to even get out of his room. It takes quite a lot of lying on his back and deep breathing at the ceiling, but then his stomach starts growling and all that’s in his mind is  _ breakfast sandwich breakfast sandwich breakfast sandwich. _

Clint had been very clear that the breakfast sandwich is for him so Bucky doesn’t hesitate to grab it from the counter and eat it in what could possibly be world-record time. The coffee is cold but he drinks it anyway and then drinks four glasses of water from the tap, ignoring the way the pipes rattle and groan. The water comes out clear so that’s good enough for him.  A quick scan of the kitchen shows him that Clint has purchased more supplies; he takes an apple from the bag on the table and stashes it in the pocket of his jacket.  Nothing else seems amiss so he pulls his cap on and edges out onto the porch. Clint is still hauling planks of wood off of the truck but pauses to wave at Bucky when he spots him.

“How are you not melting?!” he shouts incredulously. “Take the jacket off at least, bro!”

Bucky shakes his head. Underneath his jacket he’s wearing the same red henley that he’s been wearing for the last fuck-knows-how-many weeks. It’s got long sleeves but he still feels like he needs the layers to cover up. He flexes his left hand without thinking about it, sensing the stretch of the glove over his metal knuckles.

“Okay, if you pass out from overheating I will point, laugh and possibly draw a dick on your face,” Clint says, dragging another plank out of the truck. He’s dressed more appropriately for the weather, in jeans and a white tee, though the tee is covered in oil and dirt and has a ripped seam under his arm.

“You’re insane,” Bucky calls back.

“I have skewed risk-assessment strategies and an unreliable scale of personal risk,” Clint corrects with a grin that’s both proud and a little guilty. “Only Steve scored lower than me on that. Surprising really, we all thought Tony was the one with the fuck-it attitude but turns out it’s Steve.”

Bucky blinks as a memory of a man raising fists to an opponent twice his size flutters around in his brain. He’s got a strange feeling that he already knows this about Steve.

He chooses not to say this out loud, instead asking about the other variable in the sentence. “Tony?”

“Iron Man,” Clint tells him. “Fancy gold and red armor. Hey, come and help me lift these, you’re like super strong, right?”

And so Bucky edges his way off of the porch and proceeds to help Clint take the rest of the wood off of the truck. There’s also bags and bags of nails, a pallet of roofing shingles and a huge metal toolbox, which gives Bucky the impression they’re about to do some serious remodeling. 

Does that mean they’re staying here for a while?

“And break,” Clint pants as they drop the last stack of planks onto the deck, slumping over it in a rather over-dramatic fashion. “Damn it’s hot out here. And you’re making me feel hotter just looking at you, ugh.”

“What are you doing with all of this?”

“I am making the house into a viable safe-house,” Clint says. “Which means patching up the holes and making the walls bulletproof.”

_ I can help, _ is what Bucky wants to say but that would assume that he gets to stay here. 

“Are we-” he begins, summons up his courage. “Are we staying?”

“Yes,” Clint replies easily, and a knot that Bucky hadn’t noticed sitting beneath his ribcage eases. “I am staying here for the foreseeable future and you’re welcome to stay.”

Bucky nods, looking down and scuffing his boot through the dirt. “What if they come for me?”

Clint turns to face him then. “They’ll have to go through me first,” he says evenly. He doesn’t try and tell Bucky that they won’t, that it’s perfectly safe. He just looks him dead in the eye and tells him that he’ll protect him if it comes down to that.

And Bucky finds himself believing him. Wanting to trust him.

And maybe it’s as simple as just doing it. He nods, meets Clint’s eyes and says, “Okay.” 

 

* * *

He retreats inside the house and out of the sun for the afternoon, leaving Clint to do whatever it is he’s doing to the decking underneath the porch. Bucky guesses he’s ripping it all up to lay fresh and he lies there on his bed listening to thudding and banging and the occasional curse. 

That evening, they sit on the floor in the sitting room and share several pizzas. Clint is both amazed and in awe of Bucky’s ability to eat that much pizza, looking like a proud parent before announcing that Bucky’s almost as good at sinking deep-dish-double pepperoni as Steve.

Bucky doesn’t like the Steve comparisons. He thinks it’s unfair because he doesn’t know Steve properly anymore, his stupid broken filing cabinet brain can’t sort out his own damn identity, let alone Steve’s too. 

Finally, when Clint has fallen asleep on the couch - in front of the fucking Winter Soldier, he wasn't wrong about his fucked up risk analysis - Bucky creeps upstairs and goes to his backpack. He pulls out his notebooks and a pen, gets as comfortable as he can against the wall and hesitantly starts writing.  

* * *

 

 

He’s up before both Clint and the sun the next day, though maybe he’s cheating because he never went to sleep in the first place. He’s standing at the bottom of the yard just past the rusty basketball hoop when he hears a low whistle from behind him.  He turns and in the pale dawn light he can just about make out Clint standing there, shirtless and in sweats and with a bow in his hand. That’s right - Hawkeye is an archer.

“We good?” Clint calls.

“Yeah,” Bucky calls back, then frowns. “We are, right?”

“Yeah, just thought I’d check you were with me,” Clint says, hopping down off of the deck and walking over. He’s barefoot and there are a few stumbles as he picks his way across the gravel to stand beside Bucky. “Brainwashing is a tricky bitch to deal with. Do you get flashbacks?”

It’s a fucking direct sniper-shot of a question and makes Bucky tense up. “No,” he lies. 

Clint nods. “I did for a while,” he says. “I get weirdly linked memories now, like - I’ll hear one thing and it pings me to a memory of something that has fuck all to do with it, but that’s about it.”

“You were-?”

“Oh yeah,” Clint says, shrugging. He sets the lower limb of his bow on his foot, hunching over and propping his chin lightly on the other end. “Fighting a demigod from another planet and he totally took over my brain.”

And now it makes more sense why Clint is willing to put himself on the line for Bucky, why he’s accepting Bucky without batting an eyelid.

“We’re like brainwashing bros,” Clint says seriously, and holds up his hand in a fist towards Bucky. Bucky just stares at him, nonplussed.

“Oh god, you’re useless,” Clint says, resting his bow against his chest and reaching for Bucky’s hand. He takes him by the wrist and lifts his hand up. “Make a fist,” he says and Bucky obliges. “Look, fist bump,” he says, and knocks his knuckles against Bucky’s. “We’re officially friends now, no take backsies.”

“I have no idea what you are talking about ninety percent of the time,” Bucky tells him, letting his hand drop when Clint lets go of him. He rubs unconsciously at his wrist with his other hand, not sure if he liked being touched or not.

“You and the rest of the planet,” Clint says cheerfully. “Why are you awake at ass o’clock, anyway?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” Bucky says, volleys back with a question of his own. “Why are we in Iowa?”

“Told you, it’s home,” Clint yawns. “Grew up here.”

“Iowa,” Bucky repeats, sighing at the horizon, the thin strip of orange that bleeds into the inky purple. “The State of Iowa comprises 56,288 square miles, primarily prairie and farmland, located between the Mississippi and Missouri rivers. It’s an average of 300 miles across, and would take an average person a hundred hours to walk non-stop from east to west.”

Clint does an actual to god double take. “I’m sorry Google, what did you just say? How the hell do you know that?”

“I don’t know,” Bucky says heavily. “But I know it. Don’t know when my own birthday is, though.”

That’s a lie, he read it in the Steve museum, the place where he found his face and his name. He knows his birthday and he knows when he died, too.

“March tenth, nineteen seventeen,” Clint says promptly and this time it’s Bucky’s turn to do a double take. “What? I know who you are,” Clint shrugs. “You’re a big deal, pal. Captain America’s best friend means you get name-dropped in all the history books.”

Bucky feels - well, he doesn’t exactly know, but close to appalled is probably it. “I’m in - oh god.”

“Yeah, don’t sweat it,” Clint says. “There’s a university on the East Coast that has a whole course on the Avengers, some sociology psychology thing about the place of humans within the ranks of powered people. I’m worth like, six credit hours, it’s great.”

“I’m not Captain America’s best friend anymore,” Bucky says and he’s a little unsettled by how sad that makes him feel.

“Yeah, don’t worry about that, if Captain America gets his way you will be,” Clint says, unconcerned. “He’s - well, you’re still important to him.”

“Oh,” is all Bucky can say to that. With nothing else to offer, he simply stands there next to Clint, watching the dark of the night give way to the sun.

  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

_Steve came to watch me boxing. I won the title and it was better because he was there. He was smaller. (tournament was being held at the school). He had a busted lip. ~~Why??~~ Because he’d gotten into a fight with ~~someone~~ who I was friends with until Steve got on at him for calling Bonnie a bimb and the guy had - John Nixon Jr._

The name _John Nixon Jr_ starts in blue ink, however it ends as nothing more than a faint imprint scratched into the paper. Bucky frowns down at his notebook and tries writing another word. The pen starts and then gives up, leaving a weak stop-start trail of ink in its wake.

“Fuck.”

Bucky snaps his notebook shut, jaw clenching. He was on a roll with memories this morning and was itching to get them written down. Just in case.

Feeling put-out and irritated with the entire world in general, he leaves his room and cautiously heads towards the banging and crashing that marks Clint’s location. He finds him hidden in the skeleton of the deck, the entire back section of it having been pulled free and tossed into the yard.

He hovers for a moment, a shadow lurking out of sight. It would be so easy to just back up and slip away, taking his bad mood and his bad history with him. There’s a part of him that doesn’t want to go though, a small scared part that wants to reach out towards the inexplicable kindness he’s been shown and take shelter in it.

If only he knew how to make that urge translate into successful communication. He shifts from foot to foot, deciding that all he can do right now is try.

“Clint?”

Clint’s head pops up from between two surviving beams with all the suddenness of a jack in the box. “Good morning,” he says. “The beams under here are good, we don’t need to replace them. Is there a piece of shit hammer up there?”

Bucky sits down on the edge of the gap that Clint has made, reaching for the offending tool and handing it over. He swings his feet back and forth, looks at the notebook that’s still in his hand. Maybe…maybe Clint can fill in some of his gaps about Steve? He’s worked with him before after all, and Steve is common ground that they both have. Bucky likes to think that Steve could be a relatively safe topic of conversation for them both but that would mean ignoring the weird twisty-aching thing his stomach and chest seem to do whenever he so much as thinks about Steve.

Whatever Steve is, safe probably isn’t anywhere near the top of the list.

He sits in silence for another few moments, chewing on his lip before surprising himself by thinking _‘fuck it.’_

“I remembered Steve starting a fight with a guy for being rude to a girl, calling her names,” he says, reading over his words again to see if they make sense. Re-reading it, he thinks he can also remember the shirt Steve was wearing, a pale blue button-down with the sleeves rolled up. He can definitely remember Steve’s lopsided grin, how proud he’d been of Bucky as he’d won the tournament.

“Sounds like Steve,” Clint says, and disappears back under the deck. There’s a thump, the sound of splintering wood and a crack. Bucky thinks maybe he shouldn’t be sitting on the deck while Clint is cheerfully demolishing it.

“He came to watch me boxing in a tournament,” Bucky says.

“You boxed?” Clint’s voice drifts up, sounding surprised. “This would have been Steve before, yeah? When he was a shrimp?”

“He was smaller.”

“That’s what shrimp means. Do you still box?”

“Do I still - what kind of question is that?” Bucky asks, feeling annoyed.

“I don’t know, I’m just - ow, son of a bitch! I’m just making conversation. Even assassins have to have hobbies, right?”

Bucky gets up and walks away. The annoyance has turned jarring and brittle in his chest and he’s a little afraid of where that might lead him, so instead he leads himself away. It’s possibly too hot for him to be wandering about in his current attire but he doesn’t care. Breath held in his chest, he strides away from the house and the yard and Clint, making his way towards the track.

It takes him on a straight path between two fields, both easily shoulder height with grass. It rustles in the faintest of breezes and Bucky feels both fear that anyone could be easily hiding not six feet away from him and reassurance that he knows he could easily hide if he chose.

 _You could hide in this field forever,_ he tells himself. _Hide in the grass and eat berries._

He walks for hours, sweating yet tireless. It’s only when the wild grassy fields either side of him give way to more regimented fields of crops that he pauses, wondering if the shift in vegetation could also mean that there is more life in these parts.

And maybe his assessment that he was tireless wasn’t quite accurate. One of his toes is aching slightly and there’s the uncomfortable stretch of hunger in his belly. And he’s left Clint alone and Bucky doesn’t know how well Clint can survive alone. Not that Hydra is after Clint but Clint is an Avenger so is bound to have enemies. Besides, Bucky has seen him hurt himself with no less than three different tools since he started demolishing the deck so maybe it’s not Hydra that they need to worry about.

_Don’t worry about me, let’s get you inside, c’mon Buck-_

The memory comes out of nowhere and it hurts like someone has just shone a flashlight right into his eyes. Bucky grits his teeth, pressing his palm against his forehead to try and calm his brain down. Exhaling through his nose, he tries to think who and when and where. Luckily, this time around it’s not too hard to place. It’s Steve, brushing off Bucky’s worry about his transformation, helping Bucky stagger towards the medical tent after that goddamn walk back from that fucking Hydra base-

“File under Steve, nineteen-forty-four,” Bucky mutters, eyes screwed tightly shut. “File under post-Zola, post-serum and Steve looking after me.”

His voice cracks on the last word and he has to sit down, right there on the verge. His hides his face in his hands and tries to keep calm and not burst into tears. Steve had always looked after him, even when it looked to the rest of the world that Steve was just some scrawny kid hanging onto Bucky’s coattails. Whenever Bucky had needed anything, Steve had been there.

And now he doesn’t even know Steve anymore and he’d ran away from him and he doesn’t know what he’s doing with his life.

“Sitting on the floor like an idiot is what you’re doing,” he tells himself, wiping his eyes on the back of his glove. The seam catches on the bridge of his nose and he yanks it off, hurling it into the field with an angry shout. He stares at the spot where it vanished and then feels utterly ridiculous. Tail tucked firmly between his legs, he crawls over to retrieve the glove, shoving it back in his pocket and then getting up to walk back the way he came.

When he gets back, the house is actually quiet and he has a horrible moment of thinking that Clint is _gone_ , maybe out looking for Bucky, or snatched through a window or from the deck, bundled into a van or a jet and whisked away by people demanding to know where the Winter Soldier is. Even worse, someone has come looking for the Winter Soldier and found only Clint, and has dispatched him and left his body under the deck or out in the endless sea of fields.

He breaks into a run across the yard, leaping up the steps and crashing through the back door-

And he comes face to face with Clint’s bow, arrow nocked and pointed right at his face. He freezes and holds his hands up by his head.

“I’d rather you didn’t make me jump,” Clint says conversationally. “You okay? Any scuffs or scratches?”

“I went for a walk,” Bucky says a little helplessly. His panic has faded and now he's caught between wanting to physically push Clint away and skulking away to hide from him. “I’m sorry.”

Clint looks skyward, visibly counts to ten and then lowers his bow. “Okay, I know you’re a hot mess right now but fucking off for eight hours then crashing back through the door is a dick move.”

Bucky nods mutely. He feels tears threatening again, too close to the surface.

“Oh Christ, I can’t even be mad at you, you look-” Clint breaks off, visibly frustrated. “Sit. Eat.”

Bucky drops automatically into a chair. Clint passes him a glass of water and he drinks it. He’s given a sandwich and he eats it. He’s given seconds and he eats that too.   

“And now you’re going to shower,” Clint says.

Shower. Water. Vulnerable. Not a chance.

“I will fight you,” Clint threatens. “You stink, Barnes.”

And as his brain reboots and regains the capacity to think in full sentences, Bucky has to concede that he has been wearing the same clothes for days if not weeks and for the past couple of days he’s been merrily sweating his way through every layer he owns.

“I don’t have any other clothes,” he says, throat tightening around a flash of embarrassment.

“There are spares for you in the bathroom,” Clint says. “I’m going to go outside and shoot at things. Stress relief, seriously, this job is going to give me an ulcer.”

Bucky looks miserably at the tabletop. “I can go.”

“Oh man. No, no that’s not what I was-” Clint says around a sigh. “I’m just running my mouth, don’t take me seriously. Well, take the next thing I’m going to say seriously. I’m a hothead and I’ve got no self-preservation and I get impatient, but I am the most qualified person to be looking out for you right now. I wouldn’t be doing this if I thought I couldn’t handle it. So trust me. Go shower, I will stay on guard while you do. Get in clean clothes and then let me know when you’re out. You don’t have to come and be social or any shit but you let me know when you’re out, okay?”

Throat still too tight to be comfortable, Bucky just nods. He feels - he doesn’t know, it’s such a mess. Panicked that everything is going to go wrong. Grateful for Clint’s intervention in his life. Angry, because he spent over a year alone and he got by, he’s not incompetent or some sort of child that needs protecting-

 _But you could do with the help,_ a voice in his head says. He tells it to shut the fuck up, stomping up to the bathroom and engaging in a pretty epic staring match with the tub. There’s a shower head crudely attached to the wall, just hanging there like a broken limb, and he needs to grow the hell up and stop being so scared of it.

“You got this,” he mutters to himself. He takes the glove off his left hand and slowly shrugs out of his jacket, looking around for the clothes that Clint promised. They’re sitting innocuously on the closed lid of the toilet - a pair of black sweatpants, a white tee, clean socks and underwear. Nothing with long sleeves though, which means the jacket is going straight back on afterwards.

He thinks about Clint standing there with his all-too-obvious hearing aids, narrows his eyes at the pile of clothes like they’re the ones challenging him.

After another round of staring, he decides _fuck this_ and the jacket goes back on, only to come off again not five seconds later, followed swiftly by the red henley. He drops them both to the floor, unconsciously raising a hand to hold onto his metal shoulder as he triple-checks the door. It’s only locked with a flimsy bolt but for now it’ll have to do.

 _Doing pretty swell at looking like an incompetent child,_ the voice in his head says and he has to stop and cover his face with both hands for a moment. God, he’s pathetic, he can't even shower himself without turning it into some huge great mess.

He’s stripped off and in the tub in the next ten seconds and as he stands there under the warm spray he feels like he’s won something. Not as good as winning the state championships in high-school boxing while Steve Rogers stands there and cheers himself hoarse, but something pretty decent nevertheless.

 

* * *

 

The world doesn’t end while he’s showering. It doesn’t even end while he debates his filthy jacket again and makes the decision to leave it in his bedroom before padding barefoot downstairs. Every time he thinks he can’t do it, he just tells himself that if Clint can be vulnerable in front of him, maybe it goes both ways.

He finds Clint sitting on the couch, fiddling with a thin silver rectangle that Bucky regards warily.

“Is that a phone?”

Clint jumps a mile, dropping the phone. He grabs at it with his other hand, knocks it away from him and has to lunge to grab it before it hits the floor. With it finally back in his grip, he presses it to his chest and glares at Bucky.

“Stop making me jump!”

“I didn’t mean to,” Bucky says, pointing at his feet. “I’m not wearing shoes.”

“But you are at least two hundred and ten pounds of muscle, you should not be able to get around that quietly,” Clint bitches. “And don’t say it’s my fault for being deaf, I can hear footsteps on these creaky ass floorboards.”

“I didn’t say it was your fault,” Bucky says. “Uh, should I make more noise?”

“Yes,” Clint says. “Enough so that I know you’re coming.”

“Okay,” Bucky says. He edges forwards, touching the edge of the couch with metal fingers. He’s not going to sit down, he just wants to maybe think he could, if he wanted to.

“Why have you got a phone?”

Clint glances at him, maybe surprised by Bucky’s sudden predilection for asking questions. Bucky doesn’t blame him; since they landed, talking has definitely been more of Clint’s thing than his.

“For playing Candy Crush.”

Bucky opens his mouth, tries to find something clever to say. “I,” he begins, then gives up on trying to be smart. “I have no idea what that means.”

“Don’t worry, you’re not missing out,” Clint says. “Phone’s for keeping in touch with my contacts, the ones that are nothing to do with the Avengers. They’re keeping me filled in on anything Hydra shaped that they find. Don’t worry, it’s got a lot of protection on it, it can’t be traced.”

“Except by the people who put the protection on the phone?”

“Yeah, good job I trust those people,” Clint says, finally tossing the phone aside onto the worn cushions of the couch and giving Bucky his full attention. Bucky tenses as Clint looks him up and down, expecting a comment about his arm, but what Clint comes out with is, “I don’t have a hairbrush. Do you have a hairbrush?”

Bucky shakes his head. His hair drips more water over his shoulders as he does, like it’s proving Clint’s point or something. He frowns, pushing it away from his face.

“Never mind. You feel better, anyway?” Clint asks, slumping back down onto the couch and looking back at the phone.

“Yeah,” Bucky says. “Still...still finding this all very strange.”

“Hey, I’m the one with a cyborg in my lounge, I think I get to find it strange,” Clint says vaguely and then seems to realize what he’s said, wincing. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that, probably.”

Bucky thinks he agrees. But Clint wasn't being unkind and Bucky doesn't think Clint has anything against his metal arm so maybe rolling with it is the best thing to do here.

“I’m not a cyborg,” Bucky says and lifts his left hand, looking at it closely. “I’m like, twelve percent robot at most.”

Clint laughs at that, a delighted cackle with eyes screwed shut and feet lifting off the floor as he rocks back. “There’s a song somewhere, some chick sang a song about not being a robot,” he beams. “I’ll play it for you when I get the internet running.”

“We’re going to have the internet?”

Clint scoffs at him. “What kind of safe-house do you take this for?”

“One which will blow down in the next storm?”

“Pfft. It’s stood here for long enough,” Clint laughs. “One more storm ain’t going to do shit.”

 

* * *

 

Luckily, there are no more storms that night to test Clint’s confidence. Bucky actually sleeps, managing on and off catnaps for a few hours. He remembers nights with similar humid heat hanging over a city, fighting for space in front of a second-hand general electric fan. He wants to write it all down in his journal but he’s still not found a replacement for his pen and he can’t exactly pop down to the market for new ones.

He gets up with the dawn again, heads outside to check the perimeter of the yard. Everything is still and peaceful enough, save for the morning chorus of birds and insects. He sits in the grass and eats the apple that he’d liberated from the kitchen, carefully watching the house. Clint appears mid-morning, freshly showered and shirtless. He has his bow in hand and waves it at Bucky as he jumps off the deck and into the yard.

“Shooting then breakfast,” he calls. “Can you move? I think Steve will kill me if I accidentally shoot you.”

Bucky gets up, still nibbling at his apple core. He doesn’t think Clint’ll be mad at him for taking the apple so doesn’t make any effort to conceal it. “You haven’t told him yet, have you?”

“No,” Clint calls back. “Though he’ll probably kill me for that, too.”

Bucky isn’t sure what to say to that, so he just moves out of Clint’s way and goes to sit on the deck. He does want to know if Steve is looking for him but he’s honestly a little afraid of what the answer will be.

Clint shoots for around an hour, somehow never missing a damn shot while also idly chatting to Bucky about his plans for the house. Bucky doesn’t know what he’s more impressed by: Clint’s evident shooting ability or the vision he has for the safehouse. He seems to have ten thousand different ideas, ranging from small ‘fixing shingles’ type things all the way to entire ‘replace all of the walls with bulletproof metal’ projects. While categorizing the jobs as ‘big and small’, Bucky is also vaguely sorting them into a list of things that he has no clue about and ones he could maybe help with.

The idea of helping lingers in his brain as they pack up and go in for breakfast. He eats what he’s told to eat, panics slightly because he’s not got any pockets big enough for stowing fruit in, drinks several cups of insanely strong coffee and tries to ignore the part of himself that says he’s not helpful in any way, shape or form unless Clint wants help killing things.

Clint is midway through a monologue about clearing out the attic when Bucky finds himself blurting out of nowhere, “I can help.”

Clint cocks his head and Bucky holds his breath, waiting for Clint to tell him that no, he can’t help, that there’s no way of him being helpful ever again.

But Clint just shrugs and then nods. “If you want,” he says. “You’re not obliged to help though. All I need you to do is get your bearings and recover.”

“I...I think I would feel better being useful,” Bucky admits. “But my skills are mostly limited to spying and murder.”

Clint bites back a laugh. “We probably shouldn’t joke about it,” he says, even as his mouth is curling in a grin. “But where’s the fun in that?”

“I’m strong, I can help with a lot,” Bucky says. “And I’ve got steady hands.”

“And hopefully a flair for decorating, I don’t know shit about that,” Clint says. “Okay then brainwashing bro, you’re hired. I will pay you in high-fives.”

Bucky feels his mouth twitching in an attempt to smile. “And food?”

Clint shakes his head at that. “No,” he says, and Bucky feels his smile fade into uncertainty. “You don’t need to do anything to earn food,” Clint continues firmly. If Bucky didn’t know better he’d say he was even angry about it. “Even if you stay in your room all day and don’t lift a finger, you still have the permission and the right to come and get something to eat. You got that?”

And Bucky doesn’t trust himself to speak. He just nods, wondering how the hell Clint keeps finding fears that even he doesn’t fully understand and brushing them away. He’s not about to turn his nose up though, if someone is going to be kind to him and make the effort to understand him, rather than hanging him out to dry for everything he’s done.

Though maybe he does want to check that Clint knows what he’s doing, first.

“All jokes about Steve killing you aside. You know I’m the murderer here.”

Clint choke-coughs around his mouthful of coffee. He splutters and thumps on his chest with his fist, glaring at Bucky with watery-reproachful eyes. “Yeah, I know,” he says, descending into another fit of coughing before he recovers enough to say, “What, you think I tracked you and managed to sneak up on you in Bucharest and I don’t know your nasty history?”

Bucky looks down at the tabletop, feeling his face going uncomfortably warm, his stomach debating a revolt against his breakfast. “I just don’t want you to pitch your lot in with me-”

“Okay, I’m going to say this one last time,” Clint says, going as far as to put his coffee down. “I am choosing to put in my lot with you. I am choosing to see you as a victim in this and I am choosing to help. You don’t get to take that away from me. Now you can either choose to see yourself as a bad guy, or you can choose to accept that you have been royally fucked over and used. Which one is it going to be?”

And Bucky doesn’t want to answer, doesn’t want to make a decision this big and huge. He’s not even _remembered_ everything he’s done so how is he meant to forgive himself for it? How is he supposed to just ignore the fact his own two hands have been responsible for so much terror?

The moment stretches out and out and out, and as it does Bucky feels more like he’s going to throw up, or snap and flip the goddamn table, just to get rid of the crawling sensations of guilt and uncertainty- 

“Okay, that was a lot to yell at you,” Clint finally says, the tension cresting and breaking, lessening with every word he speaks. “Don’t - you don’t have to answer. Just think about it, okay?”

Taking a steadying breath against the lingering emotion, Bucky nods.

“Okay,” Clint says again, drumming his fingers against the tabletop. “You any good at drawing?”

“No,” Bucky says, thinking about Steve sitting in the open mouth of a tent with a pencil and sketchbook in hand. “I can just about draw a straight line.”

Clint smiles. “Lucky you. Straight lines is exactly what I need.”

 

* * *

 

Turns out the vast array of straight lines that Clint has him drawing on a huge sheet of paper come together to make a blueprint. Between them, they take measuring tapes and map out every inch of the house, slowly committing it to paper. It’s repetitive, steady work and Bucky finds he quite likes it.

“You know this would be dangerous if it fell into the wrong hands,” Bucky says as he carefully draws a line to indicate the outer wall of the lounge.

“That’s why I’m going to keep it inside the house,” Clint says, watching him closely. “I’ll lock it in the safe.”

So there’s a safe in the house. Bucky will have to check it to see just how secure it is, purely for Clint’s benefit seeing as he doesn’t have anything valuable enough to warrant keeping in a safe. His notebooks maybe, but he doesn’t want to let them out of his sight.

Bucky looks down at the line he’s just drawn. “How big is the cavity here?” Bucky asks, tapping his finger against the paper, between two parallel lines

“Dunno, I’d have to knock a hole in the wall to work it out,” Clint says, and then his face lights up. “I’m going to go knock a hole in the wall.”

“Want a hand?” Bucky says, waving metal fingers at Clint.

“Nah, I got this,” Clint says. He wanders off and Bucky smiles to himself as he hears a loud crack, followed by the unmistakable sound of splintering wood. There’s the screech of old nails and then a pause, and Clint comes back with the tape measure in hand. “This deep,” he says happily.

Bucky checks the measurement against the one on his diagram. “It doesn’t fill me with confidence that you found it so easy to bust a hole in the wall.”

“Told you, I’m going to make them bulletproof,” Clint says, yawning and stretching his arms up above his head so his back audibly pops. “I’ll fill them with-”

What Clint is planning on filling the walls with never materializes into words as he’s interrupted by the cellphone ringing. It cuts loud and shrill through the conversation and Bucky’s immediate reaction is to drop to the floor, hands covering his head.

“What the–?! Barnes, it’s just the phone! Oh my god, wait-”

Above the sound of his pulse roaring in his ears he hears Clint rush across the room, then the ringing stops. He’s shaking from head to toe, a fine trembling which has him pressing his forehead to the floor, swallowing convulsively as he tries to will himself calm.

“Maria, I’m on the line with you, just wait,” Clint’s voice says, and then Bucky both hears and feels footsteps moving back across the boards. “Barnes? Barnes, you hear me?”

Bucky manages to nod.

“Okay, I assume the phone made you jump because you’d never heard the sound before. It’s okay, don’t worry about it. You want me to leave you here or you want me to help you up?”

“Don’t touch me,” Bucky manages to say. “I’m a fucking idiot.”

“Message received,” Clint says. “You’re just jumpy, don’t sweat it. Here, I’m gonna go get you a glass of water and I’ll put it down next to you.”

His footsteps move away again and Bucky flinches as he hears the tap turn on, the rushing of water making him feel cold and brittle. The glass of water is set down next to him and he can sense Clint nearby.

“You want me to leave you alone in here or do you want me to stay in the room? I’m gonna go back to my cell and talk to Maria.”

Bucky swallows again. “Who’s Maria?”

“She used to work for SHIELD, before you and Steve blew SHIELD up,” Clint says. “And then she worked for the Avengers, until Sokovia. She’s badass and amazing and she’s my friend. She knows about you and she’s definitely on our side.”

Bucky nods into the floorboards. “Stay,” he finds himself saying. “If you don’t mind me hearing.”

“Not at all,” Clint says, sounding relieved. “Here’s a mental hug and I’m gonna go pick the phone back up.”

Bucky stays still until he hears Clint speaking into the phone again, sounding cheerful and not-at-all apologetic.

“Hey, I’m back. Yeah, the phone just freaked him out, it’s set loud enough for me to hear it – yeah, he’s fine. Just jumpy. No, not like Nat was jumpy. What? Yeah, it’s going fine.”

Bucky turns his head, watches Clint through the curtain of his hair. Clint is standing by the window, picking absently at the wood of the sill. Without any eyes on him, it’s easy to slowly sit up, rubbing his shoulder before reaching for the glass of water and draining it in several swallows. He sets the glass down and shuffles as quietly as he can across the room, until his back hits a wall and he feels less vulnerable.

He listens to Clint telling Maria about the successful rescue operation, the plans for the safe house, technicalities with the jet. It’s a fairly light-toned conversation, until Clint abruptly stops and says, “Are you actually kidding me?” in a voice that is full of disbelief.

Bucky lifts his eyes to Clint, worry igniting in the pit of his stomach. Clint meets his gaze, looking troubled. “They’re going ahead?” he asks, then shakes his head and takes the phone away from his ear. “This isn’t about you, don’t worry,” he says quickly to Bucky before returning to the phone. “Maria, say that again.”

Despite Clint’s attempt at being reassuring, Bucky is not comforted. Clint hasn’t seemed phased by anything since he picked Bucky up but now here he is, shoulders gone tense and tight, brow furrowed. Even if it’s nothing to do with him, anything upsetting Clint must be big news.

“Okay,” Clint says into the phone, rubbing at his forehead. “Thanks. Yeah, I’ll call you tomorrow. Still on the same-? Okay, you call me whenever you know anything more. Yeah. Bye.”

He hangs up and simply stares at the phone for a few moments. “Well, that complicates things,” Clint says, more to himself than Bucky. He heaves out a sigh and pockets the phone before walking over to Bucky. “Can I sit?” he asks, and Bucky nods. Clint turns to slide down the wall next to Bucky, leaving a decent gap between their shoulders.

“What’s happened?” Bucky asks.

“Okay, you know what happened in Sokovia?” Clint asks, staring ahead at the back of the couch.

“Something about the Avengers making robots and the robots going rogue and trying to take over the world?”

“Trying to destroy the world,” Clint corrects with a grimace. “So, we beat the robots but…there was collateral. A hell of a lot of collateral. So now, some politicians have decided that the Avengers need to be put on a leash. They’ve written this document, the Accords, which basically takes away our right to decide when to go and intervene. They get to say where we can go, when we can go, who can go, all of that.” Clint sighs, scratching absently at his hearing aid. “So we all laughed about it. No way is that going to fly. We save the world, right? We can’t be tied up in red tape. Like, imagine the Avengers sitting around and waiting for some asshat in a suit to tell us when we can help.”

“I’ve got a bad feeling,” Bucky murmurs.

Clint laughs shortly. “Well, the Accords are being taken to a meeting of the United Nations in three days’ time,” he says. “They’re going to ratify them.”

Bucky feels his brows shoot up. “They’re going to do it?” he asks, shocked. He thinks about Steve being at the beck and call of a political organisation again and fights a mad urge to laugh. Steve has never liked being told what to do, especially if he thought he was in the right.

But he doesn’t know Steve anymore. His version of Steve is seventy years out of date.

“Cap is going to fucking lose his shit,” Clint mutters, covering his eyes with his palm. Bucky blinks. Maybe his version of Steve isn’t that far wrong, in some respects. “He won’t agree to this, at all. Tony is going to lose his shit – the last time he ended up in front of the government he called a senator an asshat. Oh god, this is not going to end well.”

“What happens if you don’t agree?” Bucky asks quietly.

Clint shakes his head, troubled. “I don’t know,” he says quietly, leaning back so his head hits the wall with a thud. “I don’t know.”

 

* * *

 

Despite the seriousness of the situation, Clint seems to brush off the bad news about the Avengers and the Accords with relative ease, going back to rebuilding the deck after their heart-to-heart. Bucky on the other hand stays inside, still feeling an exhausting combination of guilty and acidic and unsociable. Swiping the pencil he’d been drawing blueprints with, he returns to his room and writes down everything that Clint has told him, as well as his own thoughts about Steve.

 _Steve doesn’t like taking orders from people with ulterior motives_ , he writes underneath his summary of the Accords, and takes a moment to stop and re-read, swallowing thickly. He slowly flicks his notebook back to the page that has the leaflet from the museum tucked inside, reaching out to gently touch the picture of Captain America. He looks both calm and terrifyingly self-assured, blue eyes focussed and determined.

Bucky takes the picture out of his notebook. “Why do I know you more than I know myself?” he says, feeling the way his voice breaks on the last word. Part of him wants to rip the picture to shreds, to destroy both it and the feelings it evokes. The rest of him wants to accept the rush of emotion, to sink into it and let it carry him away.

He breathes out heavily through his mouth, trying to steady himself.  _‘I’m sorry I left you,’_ he thinks, and then twists around to carefully tuck the edge of the leaflet behind the seam of the wallpaper, the picture of Steve sitting there right next to where his pillow would be if he had one.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Bucky’s mood lasts for the next few days, making day and night blur together in one seemingly endless stretch of uncertainty and confusion. He drifts along, wishing he could just escape from the relentless back and forth his emotions seem determined to do. It’s like he’s in a goddamn rowing boat tackling the waves of the Atlantic, the ones that had seemed so huge and overwhelming when he’d seen them from the deck of the damn troop ship in ’44.

He remembers the ship well, the gunmetal grey behemoth moored in the harbor like an intruder, waiting easily to cart them halfway across the world. He remembers all those bodies packed in, everyone excited in the most morbid of ways, showing off and bragging and hollering to cover the fact that everyone was kid-alone-without-his-mom scared. He remembers lying on his bunk on the fourth tier, blinking at green canvas above his head and thinking about Steve, eight hours in and missing him so much he felt like he was going to puke.

He writes it down but he doesn’t share with Clint. In fact, Clint leaves him to it for the most part, focussing his energy on rebuilding the deck. He occasionally pops his head around the door and checks in, brings Bucky food and water but other than that he lets Bucky hole himself away in his room with nothing but his journal and his picture of Steve for company.

It’s during one of his calmer moments – no panic or urges to run, no sickening guilt or confusion over who what or where – that Clint comes to him with more than just a  _ ‘hey, you okay?’ _ Bucky’s lying on his side on his bed, blinking tiredly at the picture of Steve and letting himself just feel without trying to understand it all. The door clicks open and Bucky rolls over, stomach tightening as he takes in Clint’s shaken expression.

Clint still makes his usual effort, though. “Hey, you okay?” he asks, the words routine even though the waver in his voice isn’t.

Bucky nods. Unsticks his throat and remembers words. When he manages them, his voice is low and rough form disuse. “Are you?”

Clint laughs bitterly, reaching up to rub his face. “All my training says not to be honest with you because you might manipulate my vulnerabilities,” he says. “But I don’t give a shit what the manual says, I need to talk to someone before I explode and Maria’s line isn’t connecting.”

Whoa. Bucky pushes himself into a sitting position, brow furrowing. Worrying about Clint is a thing that’s crept up on him, starting from that moment where he panicked and thought Clint had been kidnapped.

“What’s happened?”

Clint pulls his phone out, taps the screen and then simply hands it out towards Bucky. Bucky glances from the phone, back to Clint and then at the window and door before he slowly stands up. Instinctive training directives have him taking the phone with his left hand, even though he knows the techs will despair because they think of his arm as being more valuable than the rest of him.

_ Would have despaired, _ he corrects himself.  _ No more Hydra techs, not ever again. _

Still feeling wary, he looks down at the phone and recognizes a newspaper article. Across the top, a bright red banner screams  _ BREAKING NEWS.  _ Bucky takes one look at the headline and his stomach promptly drops to somewhere around his feet.

_ Captain America refuses to sign United Nations' peacekeeping plan. _

Bucky stares at the headline and the picture underneath; it’s the Avengers but with no Captain America in sight. Iron Man is in the middle, with the woman they call Black Widow at his side. The android Vision is there too. Flanking the line-up are figures that Bucky is less familiar with; a blond woman with a serious expression and a handsome black man in military uniform.

Transfixed, he scrolls up slightly with his thumb, reading about the meeting and the United Nations and the Avengers who haven’t signed. Another flick of his thumb and there’s a picture of Steve, like anyone could have forgotten what Captain America looks like. He hurriedly thrusts the phone back towards Clint.

“I can’t believe they actually signed up for that shit,” Clint shakes his head, lip curling as he looks back to the article. “Three cheers for the government’s hired minions.”

Bucky doesn’t know what to say to that. He has no opinion on the Accords so can’t really agree or disagree with what Clint is saying. Even as he’s wondering how to react to Clint’s obvious anger, something occurs to him. “You didn’t go,” Bucky says. “You didn’t sign.”

“No, I did not,” Clint says, shoving the phone into his pocket. “I am not being anyone’s puppet again, not ever. Especially not after what happened with SHIELD.”

Bucky nods, swallowing hard. “I don’t trust the government,” he says quietly. “They were the ones sanctioning me, after all.”

Clint throws him a shrewd look at that. “Yeah,” he says. “Fuck this. Come on, we’ve got a roof to fix.”

He stomps away without another word. Bucky stays exactly where he is, frozen in place by the abrupt order. When the initial panic has faded, he reasons that Clint probably didn’t even mean it as an order so Bucky doesn’t have to obey.

“Some human being you are,” he mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose with his metal fingers. He has a feeling somewhere that he needs to stop thinking about orders and what other people want him to do, but he’s not altogether clear on what he’d do in place of that.

_ Choice, _ comes the simple answer.  _ Clint said about making choices, too. In Romania, you made your own choices. That was better. _

He lets the thought settle, solid and real. Chewing contemplatively on his lip, he thinks about the choices he has right now and wonders tentatively about what he wants to do.

_ Go and find Steve and check he’s okay, _ is his brain’s initial response, but he ignores that and decides he’s going to go and steal fruit from the kitchen and then go and help Clint. On a strange impulse, he decides that he wants to say goodbye to Steve first, so pads over to gently touch his real fingers against the picture stuck to his wall before slipping from his room like a shadow.

 

* * *

Clint doesn’t say a word as Bucky climbs up the ladder to sit on the roof next to him. It’s a vaguely precarious position but Bucky’s got good balance and besides, he’s had worse. Clint has a claw hammer in hand and is pulling shingles off of the roof with admirable if not slightly violent determination.

“I thought we were fixing the holes in the roof, not making more?”

Clint huffs out a laugh through his nose and the frown lines on his forehead lessen marginally. “We’re going to pull all the shingles off, reline the roof with fancy reflective shit that’ll make it impossible to detect heat signatures and then we’ll put them back. Go grab a hammer and-”

Bucky raises an eyebrow and simply uses his metal fingers to pry off the nearest shingle, holding it up in front of Clint.

This time, Clint laughs properly. “Well, that’ll work,” he says and gestures to the rest of the roof “Have at it.”

 

* * *

They’re most of the way through stripping the roof bare when Clint speaks again. Bucky’s kind of relieved because Clint has been nothing but chatty since he arrived and the silence was starting to feel strange.

“So what do you think Steve will do now?”

Bucky pulls another shingle free with a screech of nails, tossing it down onto the ground to join the others. He takes a moment to think. “I don’t know,” he says slowly. “I want to say he’ll probably do something heroic and stupid.”

“You went to his museum, didn’t you?”

Bucky nods, thinking about the picture that Clint has undoubtedly seen attached to his wall. His cheeks go warm

“There was a section about me.”

“I told you, you’re famous too,” Clint says. He stands up, feet wedged against two exposed beams, stretching so his back pops before pulling his shirt off and throwing it carelessly aside. He stands there with his eyes closed, basking in the sun.

“Famous for murdering JFK,” Bucky mutters.

Clint looks around at him, eyes snapping open. “You did that?!”

Bucky sighs, dipping his chin. “I think so,” he says.

Clint takes a moment to process. “Well, no-one but you knows that so no, you’re not famous for murdering the president,” he says, far too reasonably in Bucky’s humble opinion. “You’re famous for being Steve’s right-hand man.”

Bucky looks up at Clint flatly. “Is that supposed to be a joke?”

Clint winces, eyes flitting between Bucky’s hands. “Uh, wasn’t supposed to be?” he tries.

“From Captain America’s right-hand man to the left fist of Hydra,” Bucky sighs. “That’s a hell of a way to fall.”

“Yeah,” Clint agrees, and strangely it makes Bucky feel better. They lapse into comfortable silence; Clint crosses his arms over his chest and turns his face back up towards the sun and Bucky sits picking at a splinter in a beam, head lowered.

It takes him ages to work up the courage to verbalize his next worry. Clint has managed to pinpoint, address and assuage a few of them since he got here but Bucky thinks that this one needs to come from him. “Do you really think Steve will still be my friend?

Clint doesn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

“But I’m really different now.”

“Are you?”

“Well. Yeah. I’m… not who I use to be.”

“It’ll come back,” Clint shrugs. “You’ve had your brain wiped periodically for seventy years, there’s bound to be some catch up time as all the pieces go back to where they were.”

“Do you think you’re the same as you were before you were brainwashed?”

“Yeah, pretty much,” Clint says, face still turned lazily up towards the sun. “Maybe more suspicious of things? There’s a few things that went back screwy, but I’m still me.”

Bucky doesn’t answer. He feels like there’s much more of him that went sideways, not just a few rough edges. He doesn’t know where the line is, where a person changes so much that they can never go back to what they were. He tries to sit and think about who he used to be but the pieces seem distant and remote, like stars in the night sky that vanish if you try to look directly at them.

“I don’t know how much of me is left.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Clint shrugs. “You’re here and you’re safe right now, don’t get caught up in the fact that everything isn’t perfect straight away. You’ve got time to figure out who you are.”

Once again, Bucky chooses not to answer. He’s not convinced. It’s like he can feel a sense of self lurking just on his periphery, and he doesn’t know how to grab hold of it. More worryingly, he doesn’t know what that will look like if he does manage to get it in focus.

_ You are Bucky Barnes, _ he tells himself, holding onto what he does know.  _ You are not fighting. You are being helpful. _

It’s not much to go on, but it’s a start.

* * *

 

 

That night another thunderstorm rolls in, emptying the heavens over the state and testing their newly fixed roof. Thankfully it holds; not only that but the leak in Bucky’s room has stopped too. Bucky lies awake and listens to the distant rumbling of the thunder, remembering the war and how the German artillery had thundered down on them then. That sets him off wondering if he could ever be a soldier again, following orders, but the thought gets so tangled up in his head that he has to give up on it. Needing a break before he sends himself crazy, he treads downstairs to find Clint sitting on the kitchen counter with his bow across his knees, watching the thunder and lightning out the window.

“Hey,” Bucky calls, and Clint’s head whips around to face him.

“Hey,” he calls back. “I’m just watching. Couldn’t sleep.”

He’s clearly tense, shoulders hunched up and elbows tight at his sides. It makes Bucky wish he had a weapon so he could help Clint guard against whatever it is that’s making him so ill at ease. But he doesn’t even carry so much as a knife anymore so has to flounder for something else he can do to be helpful.

“Uh, you want a coffee?”

Clint looks away from the window again, and this time he smiles.

* * *

 

 

Bucky wakes up on the floor in the lounge, his back against the wall and his left arm bent and tucked under his head like a pillow. He slowly opens his eyes to get his bearings, spots Clint asleep on the couch and the mugs standing on the coffee table. That’s right, they’d stayed up talking and drinking coffee, finally falling asleep as the storm had abated.

Bucky sits up, pushing his hair out of his face and scowling as it gets caught in the plates of his fingers. He hasn’t washed it again since Clint forced him to shower and with no hairbrush in the building, it’s turning into a complete rats’ nest. He should probably make an effort to smarten himself up-

_ need to smarten up for going out, Buck, you smarten yourself up if we’re only walking to the store _

He grits his teeth and presses the heel of his hand to his head. The memory is gone before he can properly process and categorize it, which leaves him feeling unsatisfied and brittle. He’s pretty sure it should be filed under  _ Steve _ but can’t work out when it was or why that was a topic of conversation.

He sits up, twisting around to peer out of the window. The sun is barely up so it can’t be much past seven, which means he’s been asleep for a solid three hours. He wants to get up and go and check the perimeter of the yard like he does every morning, maybe get out the planks from the shed that Clint’ll need today-

A low rumble has him freezing in place, sucking in a breath and pressing himself to the wall. It’s an engine, he knows that noise, and the noise is heading their way.

“Clint!” he hisses, but Clint is dead out asleep and his hearing aids are on the goddamn coffee table and the house is a long way from secure. Bucky scrambles over and grabs Clint’s shoulder, roughly shaking him awake. Clint flails in shock but Bucky just grabs hold of his chin in his metal hand and makes Clint look at him.

“Someone is coming,” he mouths.

“Shit,” Clint replies, blinking hard. He shoves Bucky away and goes for his hearing aids and then his bow, running through to the kitchen to be near the door, pressing himself against the wall and glancing out of the window. “Barnes,” he calls, voice low as he fiddles with his hearing aid. “There’s a gun in my room, under my bed in a duffel bag.”

The urge to go and get it is so strong that it scares him. The need to have a weapon and be ready for violence is right there, the same way it’s been simmering in the back of his mind while hiding in Romania. He always knew it would come to a fight but he’s shocked at how ready he is for it-

“No,” he makes himself say. “No weapons, I can’t.”

“Alright then, keep low,” Clint says, and draws an arrow from his quiver.

Heart pounding and feeling sick with adrenaline, Bucky makes himself stay on the floor, crouching in the doorway between the kitchen and lounge. The rumbling of the engine grows louder and then stops close by. He clenches his metal fist tightly and closes his eyes for a long moment, wondering what he’s going to have to do to get out of this one-

“Are you fucking kidding me!?”

Clint’s voice is incredulous and not at all scared and it throws Bucky completely off track. He opens his eyes and looks at Clint for answers even as he hears the thud of car doors and voices.

“Barnes, it’s friends of mine,” Clint says, sounding annoyed. He unlocks the door and yanks it open, spilling early morning light into the kitchen. “A call would have been nice!” he yells, brandishing his bow at whoever it is.

“No time,” a voice calls back. “You gonna put the weapon down?”

“No, you’re trespassing,” Clint yells. “Goddamit, you guys!”

“Sorry, Barton,” a calm voice says. “It was a last-minute decision.”

“Yeah, whatever, what are you doing here?” Clint steps out of the doorway, leaving Bucky alone in the house. The urge to go and get the gun intensifies but he knows now these are friends of Clint so he can’t react violently towards them, no matter how much he aches to defend himself, to lash out and keep himself safe.

Without conscious permission, his feet take him away from the open door, away from the threat. He goes all the way up to the loft, not trusting himself to be on the same floor as Clint’s gun. He ignores the way the sheet-covered furniture seems to tower over him, clambering up onto an old desk so he can look out of the circular window down onto the yard.

There’s three people standing near the jeep: a black man with a leather jacket on and a pair of sunglasses obscuring his face, carrying a duffel bag of his own; a woman with dark hair tied up in a neat ponytail climbing out of the driver’s seat and tucking a pistol into a holster on her thigh; the final occupant is a man who seems fairly unassuming, wearing a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, a pair of sunglasses in his hand. He assumes that the woman is Maria from the other end of the cell phone, and he’s about to write off the other two as strangers to him until the black man turns towards the house and Bucky promptly recognizes him.

Nick fucking Fury.

Bucky drops down onto the desk with a thud, out of sight of the window. Shit – he thought he’d killed Nick Fury on company orders, had put three bullets in him and gotten away with it. But now here he is, alive and well and standing in the yard of the safe house. That’s certainly going to complicate things.

Bucky stays in the loft, listening to the trio come inside the house, their voices distant and muted. He hears people moving around, creaking floorboards and the soft thumps of doors opening and closing, though mercifully no-one bothers him. It gives him time to process the fact that he and Clint are no longer alone, to work out how he feels about it. 

Two hours later and he still has absolutely no idea how he feels about it in the slightest.

It’s around midday, when the sun peaks high in the sky and the heat becomes almost unbearable that Clint comes to find him. He edges cautiously into the loft, slumping with relief when he spots Bucky just sitting there amongst the other old junk and forgotten things.

“So,” he says, crawling across to where Bucky is, crouching just before him. “They’re staying with us.”

“I thought I killed him,” Bucky says, wiping sweat off of his brow. “Fury. I shot him before - before everything went to hell in DC.”

“Oh,” Clint says, taken aback. “Well, you didn’t kill him. He wants to talk to you anyway. Asked me to ask you to come and chat. It’s definitely a test. He’s seeing how you react. Considering that you shot him maybe it’s more complicated than I thought it would be. I’ll back you up if you want to stay out of the way.”

Bucky shakes his head, grateful nonetheless. “You trust these people?”

Clint nods vigorously. “They’re good people.”

Good people are in short supply in Bucky’s life right now. He considers that, looking around the loft at the stacks of furniture and boxes to buy himself some thinking time. “Who’s the third guy?”

“Phil,” Clint replies. “Agent Phil Coulson. He pretty much died a few years ago and somehow turned back up a year later like nothing had happened. It’s like a gallery of the grim-reaper escapees down there.”

“Including Maria?”

“Oh, no, she just stays alive through sheer force of will and badassery,” Clint says. “You’ll like her, I think. She’s already called the government manipulative assholes, she’s great.”

“Why are they here?”

Clint grins. “Same as you, Terminator. They’re lying low and counting on little old me to keep them safe.”

Bucky stares at a box labelled  _ games _ . “You’re putting yourself in danger helping everyone out like this.”

“Nah, it’s my job,” Clint says. “Fury was technically my boss, before you threw SHIELD into the Potomac. Coulson was my supervisor. I’m pretty sure he’s just here to supervise me all over again, make sure I don’t get into trouble. And Maria – well, I’m glad she’s here. If anyone less friendly comes knocking, she’ll sort them out.”

Buck nods. “It…it’ll be good to have more people on side,” he says. “If they are okay with being on my side.”

“Well, they were the ones who helped me rescue you from Hydra, so I can safely assume they don’t hold too much against you,” Clint says. “They get it, you know. They’ve seen your files, they know it wasn’t you.”

Bucky swallows hard. “Still not ready to have that conversation.”

“Alright,” Clint says easily, dragging his finger through some dust then wiping it on his shirt. “Ready to come and meet them?”

Bucky takes a deep breath, deciding to trust Clint. “Yeah,” he says finally. “Yeah, I guess I am.”

 

* * *

“So. You’re the bastard that shot me.”

Nick Fury stares right at Bucky and Bucky stares back. Clint throws up his hands in despair, pressing his palms to his forehead.

“Nick! You can’t just say that!”

“I can and I did,” Fury says easily, leaning back in his chair and appraising Bucky. “You all yourself in that head of yours now, kid?”

“He’s a hundred years old, he’s not a kid,” Clint says flatly. Over on the other side of the table, Maria’s mouth twitches like she’s holding back laughter. The other man – Coulson – just watches with a polite detached interest from his position leaning back against the counter next to a coffee maker that certainly wasn’t there before. There appears to be brand new mugs next to it as well, all bright-white and not chipped, unlike the ones Bucky and Clint have been using.

“Question still stands,” Fury says, leaning forwards over the table to rest his chin on his fist. “What’s going on it that head of yours?”

“Not sure,” Bucky says honestly, because he doesn’t think lying will be an effective tactic against these people. Besides, he doesn’t really have the energy for it even if he did think it would be useful. “Lots of bits and pieces up here, but none of ‘em are Hydra.”

Fury nods slowly. “Good to hear,” he says, straightening back up in his chair. “Now we put the whole shooting business behind us. I forgive you and you stop looking like a kicked puppy.”

“That’s his default expression,” Clint says.

“You brought up the shooting business, boss,” Coulson points out.

Maria nods. “Yeah, you started it,” she shrugs, then tilts her head towards Bucky. “And I think the kicked puppy look is quite endearing.”

Bucky looks to Clint for help. Clint just shrugs, spreading his hands in an approximation of ‘eh, what can you do.’ He pulls out a chair at the table and gestures for Bucky to take one too; with his emotional and intellectual reserves both running low, Bucky just follows the order without second guessing, dropping down into the chair next to Clint.

“Anyway, we were just discussing the Avengers,” Fury says, gesturing around at the others. “Or what’s left of them.”

“The Accords?” Bucky ventures and Fury nods.

“All the Avengers who have signed are still legally Avengers,” he says. “Wanda Maximoff is currently under supervision at the compound but Sam Wilson and Steve Rogers are both MIA. Apparently there was supposed to be a meeting for them to discuss their options after not signing but neither of them showed. World Security is not best pleased but as far as I can gather, they’re not being actively pursued.”

“Yet,” Coulson adds from behind them. He says it perfectly neutrally which somehow makes it seem even more ominous. Bucky doesn’t doubt for a moment that there’s something highly dangerous lurking behind Coulson’s bland exterior.

Maria looks troubled, fingers drumming against the tabletop. “What do you think they’ll do? Rearrange another meeting?”

Clint snorts. “Like that’ll work.”

“Steve will want to straighten this out,” Maria insists. “He won’t just-”

“He won’t go to any meeting,” Bucky breaks in. He blanches as all eyes turn to him and he hastily tries to backtrack. “Sorry, I don’t know anything about this. I - I haven’t spoken to Steve properly in seventy years." He looks down at the table. "I shouldn’t have interrupted.”

“No, tell us,” Maria says. “What do you think?”

“We appreciate all input on this, even if your intel is out of date,” Coulson adds.

Bucky shifts in his chair. “I think… I think that if he feels like the rest of the team have bowed in the wrong direction, he won’t compromise. Not yet, he’ll be too angry.”

“Sounds about right,” Fury says heavily. “And Stark is equally as angry as Rogers probably is, so maybe a meeting is best kept off the table for now.”

“It’s a moot point, we have no hope in getting Rogers to be anywhere he doesn’t want to be,” Coulson says. “So we’ll have to wait and see where he surfaces.”

“I have some tricks up my sleeve,” Fury says slowly. “I’ll see if I can get a message to him.”

Bucky feels a thrill of not-quite-fear run through him. Clint has not once mentioned contacting Steve but now he’s here sitting opposite a man who is talking about doing exactly that. God, it’s terrifying but also makes him abruptly miss Steve like a stomach ache, the possibility of contact sharpening the sensation into something real.

He misses Steve so goddamn much. Just like he had when he’d been shipping out to England. It’s the same feeling, just seventy years later. 

“We need to get Wanda out of there,” Clint is saying; the conversation has evidently moved on while Bucky has been panicking about Steve. “She didn’t sign for a reason so why is she still at the compound?”

“That’s a mystery for another day,” Fury says.

“Don’t bullshit me, what aren’t you telling me?”

“I’ll tell you the moment we know for definite,” Fury says firmly. “For now, we need to sit tight, see if we can establish any contact with Cap and bring this shed up to safehouse standard.”

“What, it’s not leaking anymore,” Clint says defensively.

“Don’t worry,” Coulson says to Bucky, who realizes he must have been telegraphing something on his face. “By the time we’re done this place will be like Fort Knox.”

“The Fort Knox of cornfields and grass,” Maria says. “Iowa, really, Clint?”

“Screw you, Hill,” Clint says cheerfully. “You want to stay in the safehouse, you accept the corn into your heart and soul.”

Maria looks at Bucky. “How is he not driving you insane?”

And Bucky opens his mouth and finds that there aren’t any words, so all he can do is shrug.

* * *

 

 

Bucky’s fear about sleeping arrangements build and build as the sun goes down, his exhausted nerves shredding raw at the constant cycle of  _ four rooms five people four rooms five people.  _ He wants to dive back up the stairs and lock himself in his room, take his notebooks and his picture of Steve and hide them away from other people.

And then Coulson says, “I’ll take the couch,” and the problem dissipates into nothingness.

“There are some more mattresses in the attic, they’ll be dusty as all hell but they’ll do,” Clint yawns. “We’ll sort out proper furniture tomorrow. Nick, Maria - me and Barnes have already claimed a room so you can fight it out over who gets which one.”

Bucky takes that as an out. He wordlessly gets up from the table and heads for the stairs, swiping a bottle of water and two apples on the way out. Once he’s shut in his room he feels like he can breathe a little easier, throwing himself on his back on his bed and staring at the ceiling. 

Having the others turn up is certainly unexpected and most definitely difficult to navigate...but somewhere in the corner of his mind, he tentatively supposes that it might not be all bad.

* * *

 

 

Over the next couple of weeks, things really start to change. 

Maria, Fury and Coulson all engage with project ‘fix up the house’ straight off the bat, and none of them appear to be strangers to hard work or getting their hands dirty. Windows are replaced, doors are reinforced, walls are lined with Clint’s promised bullet proof metal sheeting. As well as the structural improvements, Bucky notices that  _ things _ start appearing too. The culprit is easily identifiable: Coulson develops a routine of vanishing in the battered red pickup and returning hours later with the bed bulging under a carefully secured tarp. 

On the first day, the house welcomes a washing machine, a vacuum, a microwave, two high-powered spotlights and an array of electrical equipment. The next day it’s a second couch, a box of candles, a radio, a shower curtain printed with blue stars and a faux-fur rug that goes down in the lounge. Bucky spends way too long standing on it and scrunching his toes into it, utterly enamored with how it feels. By day four there is even more electrical equipment, full sets of blackout curtains for each window, several tablet computers, a magnificently ugly yellow lamp and a whole slew of kitchen equipment, including but not limited to a blender, a potato peeler and a set of mixing bowls. 

Bucky skulks around the edges of the changing house, not unlike a wary cat. He catalogs each and every difference, from the improved cooking facilities to the neat line of bottled products that have appeared on a shelf in the bathroom. He even finds a small black bag with his name stamped on it in permanent black ink. Inside is a complete washkit, the contents of which range from useful - toothbrush - to completely irrelevant - beard comb - and back again.

“Yeah,” Clint shrugs when Bucky brings it up. “Coulson likes to have all bases covered. Just let him do it.”

Even better than both the wash kit and the new rug is the fact that with more people in the house, there is more food. It’s a double-edged sword, Bucky finds. With the increased range of food comes an increased urge to steal it; it culminates one day in a haul of four candy bars, two apples, a box of pop tarts, a can of diced tomatoes and three cans of cola. He doesn’t quite understand it because Clint has assured him that there will always be plenty of food to go around, but between thinking about the newcomers and his memories of Steve, he doesn’t have the energy to fight his issues with hoarding.

Or the energy to fight his issues with the shower, either.

 

* * *

As more and more time passes, he finds that he can deal with Coulson pretty easily, because to him Coulson is just a super efficient guy who likes to chat. He never moves too quickly and never makes loud noises. He just seems to blend into the furniture and gets on with things, though there is one time that Bucky almost strangles him for stepping out of a dark corner while Bucky was trying to sneak into the kitchen. Coulson hadn’t seemed remotely phased, had just straightened the collar of his shirt and smiled, saying, “Sorry Barnes, bad habit of mine. I’ll try not to do it again in future.”

Coulson turns out to be his go-to source of information about the other Avengers, too. Whereas Clint and Maria can get a little tightly wound whenever the Avengers or Accords come up in conversation, and Fury just side-eyes him and talks in riddles, Coulson just tells Bucky straight. Not that Bucky is forthcoming with a lot of questions, but it's nice to know what sort of answers he'll get from different sources. 

Fury is harder to deal with in other aspects too. He’s got that aura of deception that lingers even now he doesn’t work for SHIELD, and Bucky finds himself nervous of both that and the authority that Fury clearly commands.  _ ‘He’s not Pierce,’ _ he writes in his notebook, underlining it for good measure. Instead, he tries to think of Fury like Colonel Phillips but he’s not sure if it helps or not.

Maria is Bucky’s favorite. He watches her shooting targets in the back garden with easy efficiency, and she also brings Bucky extra portions of food. She does it without a fuss, just handing over a plate with a deadpan ‘bon appetit’ or a ‘can’t believe you can stand to eat this much of Coulson's cooking.’ She likes to chat too, but doesn’t feel as...clinical as Coulson sometimes does. She’s more human and Bucky likes that.

And Clint? Clint stays exactly as he was before the others arrived, dealing with Bucky with easy compassion and empathy. And despite his terrible sense of humor, his sometimes short-temper and his unparalleled ability to injure himself with anything from power tools to kitchen appliances to thin air, Bucky finds himself trusting Clint implicitly. 

It occurs to him one night when they’re sitting eating dinner together. Clint has let Bucky claim the chair with the best view of the door and is sitting on the counter behind him with his bow in hand so Bucky can relax a little; Maria has made him third cup of coffee  _ and  _ slid over a second portion of lasagne without saying a word and Coulson and Fury have stopped mid-discussion of improving safety on the house to look directly at Bucky.

“Barnes, you’ll have a good eye for this sort of thing.” Fury says. “Where do you think we should mount the second spotlight?”

And Bucky leans over to tap a metal finger against the blueprint, realizing that he’s somehow starting to trust _all_ of these people around him. 

And maybe, they’re starting to trust him too. 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music will play a big part in this fic, as Bucky tries to remember who he is and tries to work out modern life. I won't name many songs directly and they won't be integral to the plot, so maybe consider them easter eggs if you do recognise any! 
> 
> The one they're joking about in this chapter is [this one.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S_oMD6-6q5Y)

“So. You seem to be settling in well. How’re you feeling?”

Coulson, much to Bucky’s chagrin, is turning out to be an evil genius. Out of the three newcomers, he’s the one that most often starts conversations with Bucky that are about emotions and feelings and the tangled mess that is Bucy’s psyche.  Normally Bucky would walk away but this time Coulson has caught him while he’s pinned in place by reconstruction work, standing with an entire supporting beam resting on his shoulder. If Bucky hightails it out of there, the house is likely to collapse. 

“I’m okay,” Bucky says automatically, fingers tightening on the beam. “This is heavy.”

“Hmm,” Coulson agrees, critically eyeing the spirit level that’s against the new upright steel that they’ve put in to reinforce the door. “Can you last another minute?”

Bucky feels an odd urge to roll his eyes, to make a comment about this being a piece of cake compared to destroying three next-gen helicarriers. He bites his tongue though, forces himself to hold it back.

And then he wishes he’d made the awful joke because out of fucking nowhere, Coulson says, “Did you know that I wrote an essay about you in college?” 

Bucky just stares at him, thinking  _ ‘I don’t know who I am and can’t remember seventy percent of my own life, why the fuck would I know that?’ _ He manages to bite that back too, staying silent as Coulson just hmms again, moving the spirit level to the other side of the doorframe. “We had to pick a figure from modern history and I was told that I wasn’t allowed to write about Captain America again.”

Fuck the house. Bucky thinks its destruction would be a small price to pay to get out of this conversation.

“My tutor was somewhat exasperated when I handed it in,” Coulson says, and his smile is rueful. “I got an A on it, though.”

“Well I’m glad I did my part to earn you your college credits,” Bucky says slowly, and Coulson chuckles. 

“You were interesting to research, I’ll give you that.”

“I’m not interesting,” Bucky says, shaking his head. “I’m...I don’t know.”

“I liked reading about your time in Italy,” Coulson says. “Especially your part in Path to Genoa. Not that you would have called it that at the time. You were probably just cursing mountains and snow and wishing to be anywhere except on the way to Genoa.”

And Bucky has to swallow hard. “I don’t remember it,” he admits. “There’s so much I don’t remember. It’s coming back, though.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, and pauses. “I remember more about Steve than I do myself.”

Coulson just nods, taking the information in as he always does. “You can put the beam down now,” he says, and Bucky bends his knees slightly and shifts to maneuver the beam back down onto its bed. When he ducks out from underneath it, Coulson is watching him and looking contemplative.

“Steve is definitely worth remembering,” he says. “I’ve always been a fan, even before I met him. But knowing him as Steve Rogers, even for a few hours, well that was certainly something.”

And Bucky was most definitely not expecting the strange dark twist in his belly in response to Coulson’s words. He’s quickly learned that Coulson is a Captain America fan, has already heard all the jokes about the trading cards and his Cap-themed birthday party. But to hear Coulson talking about  _ Steve _ , not Cap...well, it does things to Bucky’s brain. Nasty, twisted, angry things.

He does his best to ignore it. “There’s more to Steve than any college essay can say,” he tells Coulson, and walks away.

 

* * *

That night, Clint bullies him through the shower again and then brings him an entire bag of Reeses cups to sort of apologise. 

“I’m not really sorry that I made you clean,” Clint says, sitting on the edge of Bucky’s bed as Bucky scowls and drags his still-knotted hair up into what passes for a bun. “But I am a little sorry that I called you human garbage.”

“I’m cyborg garbage, remember?” Bucky says, and Clint snorts with laughter. He sits quietly as Bucky pulls on his mercifully washed henley and a pair of sweatpants. He supposes he should feel more nervous about being half naked and vulnerable around someone, but it’s Clint so he doesn’t.

Clint yawns widely, gestures to Bucky as he ties the cord on his sweats, just to make sure there’s no accidental slippage. “We need to get you some new duds, bro. You can’t keep swapping between two outfits.”

Bucky frowns, picking at the cuff of his shirt. “I can.”

“You stole both of those outfits. You need clothes that are yours.”

Bucky sighs, moves his notebook out of the way to sit on the bed next to Clint, just far apart enough so that he’s comfortable. “What’s the point? The only people I see are you guys.”

“Okay, you don’t need clothes to impress anyone,” Clint concedes. “But you might start feeling more like yourself if you pick something of your own, not something of mine or something you stole off a line.”

“Stole out of a laundromat actually,” Bucky says. “How would I get new clothes?”

“You give me or Phil a list and we go pick them up for you,” Clint shrugs, and he nudges Bucky with his elbow. “Think about it, yeah?”

And Bucky nods jerkily. He heaves out a breath and then holds out his fist towards Clint, not looking at him. Clint smiles and gently bumps his knuckles against Bucky’s.

 

* * *

When Bucky hands Clint his shopping list, Clint reads it twice and then looks up at him flatly.

“Really? You have the whole world of fashion open to you and you want to dress like Coulson?”

“It’s what I would have worn before,” Bucky says, though he’s a little unsure. “We talked about me...finding myself again?”

“Alright, I guess that makes sense,” Clint says, pushing his sunglasses up his nose. “But I get this for you and I reserve the right to call you Old Man Barnes.”

Bucky squints at Clint, lifting his metal hand to shield his eyes from the sun. “I’d argue if I honestly thought I could stop you.”

Clint grins, pointing finger guns at him as he walks back towards the pickup. “You know me so well,” he says. “Don’t wait up.”

* * *

 

 

Bucky does, in fact, wait up. When Clint gets back with several bags of shopping, Bucky just about snatches them from him. Heart thudding in the base of his throat, he nearly bowls over Maria as he runs up to his room, kicking the door shut behind him. He shouts an apology over his shoulder as she yells after him, threatening him with bodily harm for not looking where he’s going. He probably should feel bad; getting knocked over by him is probably a bit like getting hit by a truck.

Getting changed into his new clothes is disappointingly anti-climatic. He sheds his old stolen outfit and steps into a brand new pair of dark slacks, accompanying them with an olive-green button down. It feels strange over his left shoulder but he ignores the discomfiture, making a mental note to be careful so he doesn’t rip it.

He loops his new belt into the pants, rolls his sleeves up and checks the buttons twice over. It’s...nice to have something new, something of his own, he concedes. But he doesn’t get any feelings of familiarity or any deep settling sense of  _ right _ as he smooths his hands over the front of his shirt. Maybe it’ll take a while, like Clint said before.

_ Maybe _ , he a tiny voice whispers, feeling fear walk down his spine again.  _ Maybe he is really too far gone to go back. _

* * *

 

 

“Looking good, Barnes,” Fury calls when he slinks in for breakfast the next morning. He’s leaning back in his usual chair, a phone in his hand. “I like the green, it brings out your eyes. Coulson, I’m not getting a signal here.”

“Leave him alone,” Maria admonishes, glancing up at Bucky from her tablet. “Phil,  neither am I.”

“Give me a moment,” Coulson’s voice calls from the repurposed dining room. It looks like a tech centre now, but it doesn't matter seeing as they all eat in the kitchen anyhow.

Clint wanders in, winding a cable around his forearm. “Give it a moment to reboot and we should be online,” he says before turning his attention to Bucky. “Yeah the green suits you, the hair kinda doesn't match though. You look rather dapper until you get to your face.”

“Thanks,” Bucky says flatly. 

“There's a hairbrush in your washbag,” Coulson calls. 

“I know,” Bucky mutters. What he doesn't say is that he has tried to brush his hair but it's so tangled that it hurt and he's had enough of hurt. It wouldn't be the worst pain he's ever had to endure but he still shrinks away from it nevertheless. 

Luckily the issue of his personal grooming is dropped as Maria makes a pleased exclamation, eyes on her tablet. “We're on! What's the passcode?”

Coulson calls out a long and complex series of numbers, letters and symbols and then Maria’s smile gets even more satisfied. Coulson’s head pops around the door, giving her a thumbs up. “We’re limited severely on outgoing traffic, right now,” he says. “So no email, no online shopping, no uploading from here. But we’ll have access to the news channels straight away which is something. It goes without saying that I wouldn’t use any of our equipment for anything illegal.”

“So no streaming Game of Thrones?” Clint asks.

“I meant more bypassing security on websites or fiddling with code,” Coulson says with a faint smile. “No hacking, basically.”

Clint looks at Bucky who shakes his head. “Not really my thing,” he says. “I’d usually play bodyguard to the tech guys. Or just blow the tech up.”

“Okay, so that’s directed mostly at Maria,” Coulson says. “No hacking.”

“If only Stark was here to hear you say that,” Maria mutters.

“Well he’s not,” Fury says, matter-of-fact as always “Is this definitely secure, Coulson?”

“As secure as we’re going to get,” Coulson says. “I think we’re fine provided no-one does anything to draw unwarranted attention.”

“Brilliant,” Clint says laying the looped up cable down and reaching for Maria’s tablet. “Can I quickly-”

“You’ve got your own,” Maria says impatiently, trying to push his hands away.

“Yeah I know I just wanna play something, I promised Barnes I would-”

Maria gives up and lets Clint take the tablet. “Youtube is okay right, Phil?” Clint asks, tapping away.

“Dare I ask?” Fury says, long-suffering, but Clint is already there, holding the tablet up with a grin. Bucky frowns as a song starts playing, a melodic voice singing gently to them all about cigarettes and acting tough. Fury looks nonplussed, Coulson looks politely intrigued and Maria covers her face with her hands.

“Clint,  _ no. _ ” 

Bucky is just as confused as the other men until the singing-lady moves onto the chorus, now singing about being a robot. The penny drops and he narrows his eyes at Clint who is looking rather too pleased with himself

“Told you there was a song about being a robot.”

Fury barks out a laugh. “Barnes, if you wanted to hit him for that one, no-one would stop you.”

“I think she’s actually singing about  _ not _ being a robot,” Coulson muses. “Fitting.”

“Well now you’ve all finished being hilarious, what have we got to do today?” Bucky scowls, heading for the coffee maker. 

“Wash your hair,” Clint replies immediately.

“Put up the spotlights,” Fury goes with.

“Having a day off and watching cat videos on Youtube,” Maria suggests.

“That one, I like that one,” Clint says, handing her the tablet back. “I vote for cat videos, anyone else?”

“Well I’m going to the grocery store,” Coulson says. “So that’s my day.”

“We’ll put up the spotlights when Coulson gets back,” Fury says. “Fine, go and waste your lives watching cat videos.”

“Excellent,” Clint beams, and leans over to pick up two tablets from the kitchen table. “Coulson, can I download Crossy Road?” he calls and hands one of the tablets over to Bucky, thrusting it at him without even looking.

Bucky takes it, confused. They’re giving him a computer? They’re trusting him with something that could potentially be dangerous? Though he supposes he’s got the most to lose out of all of them if  life at the safehouse were to go sideways. 

No-one says anything to him about it and he doesn’t broach it either, just holds the computer close to him and watches as the others sit chatting happily and exploring their own. It looks like Fury is browsing the news for anything about the Accords, and Maria is tapping her way through Youtube. Bucky’s not interested in headlines or videos and for a split second he considers just giving the tablet back, but then he realises just how much information he’s suddenly connected to.

Information about pretty much anything he wants.

Abruptly his body decides that it doesn’t feel hungry at all; his stomach has tied up into a knot and he doesn’t want to be around anyone, he’s too hot and everyone is too close to him-

He retreats back to his room, clutching the tablet to him. Knees feeling strangely like jelly, he sinks down onto his bed and boots up the tablet, typing in the passcode and then navigating his way to an internet browser.

He shouldn’t.  _ This is a stupid idea,  _ he tells himself.  _ Don’t do it. _

He breathes out shakily through his mouth, bowing his head over the tablet as he carefully types in  _ Captain America _

And yep, what a stupid idea because now he’s holding hundreds of pictures of Steve in his hands and he feels like he’s going to throw up, all off balance and bent out of shape. The first picture of Steve is one he’s seen before, a painting that hangs in the Steve Museum in DC. The entire page of results are Steve in uniform, either press photos or images frozen from news footage. 

Hang on - not the entire page. The eleventh image is a picture of Steve in civilian gear, wearing a brown leather jacket over a white tee, standing outside a coffee shop with a cup in his hand and a frown behind his sunglasses.  

Bucky can’t bear it. He tries to breathe in and only manages a choked sob. Hot tears splash down onto the tablet and he has to put it aside, throwing it onto his bed and then leaning forwards with elbows on his knees, his head in his hands. It’s like there’s something inside him that is just caught up on Steve, like they’re somehow tangled up together in the mess of his brain. He wants so badly to have Steve at his side but at the same time hopes Steve stays away, never has to see this hollowed out shell of a human that Bucky has become.

“Hey.”

The gentle voice swims through the fog of his thoughts and he recognises it as Clint before fight or flight has a chance to really engage. 

“What’s going on, Buck?”

Bucky shakes his head. He doesn’t want to admit to breaking down over a stupid picture of Steve frowning at his coffee, frowning exactly like he used to down at a sketchbook or a letter or Bucky himself when Bucky was being an ass-

“I need to be myself again,” Bucky finds himself saying. “I can’t - Steve will - I can’t just be this  _ thing _ anymore, I want to be a person, I want to be _me_.”

“Well, we can help you with that,” Clint says, too gently. “I’m good at helping people find themselves.”

Bucky wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. “Yeah but none of those people have been the fucking Winter Soldier,” he says bitterly.

Clint shrugs. He settles in, sitting with his legs crossed right there on the floor in front of Bucky. “I told you, you’re not the only assassin I’ve taken in. The last one was prettier than you, though.”

Bucky doesn’t look up at that, just lowers his hands and links his fingers together, staring down at the crossover of flesh and metal.

“Natalia Romanova,” Clint says. “The Black Widow. Infamous assassin of the Red Room turned Avenger. I was sent to kill her actually, but when I found her I made the call that she didn’t need putting down, she needed something else. Eight years later and we’re partners, working for SHIELD in Strike team Delta. It was a long road to get there, though. Lot’s of mistakes on my part, lots of back and forwards. But we got her there.”

It’s not hard to work out why Clint is telling him this. He doesn’t want to, but he feels a tiny flicker of hope ignite itself at Clint’s words, probably just like Clint planned.

“I don’t know everything you need and I don’t know everything you’re going through,” Clint continues. “But I know a bit. And I would like it if you let me help.”

“You don’t know it’s going to be worth it,” Bucky says tonelessly.

“Barnes. In a matter of just over a fortnight you have gone from a loner who was too scared to stand by an open window to a smartass who has befriended three of the most difficult sons of bitches I’ve ever met.” He pauses. “Well, not Maria, she is wonderful and everyone loves her but the point stands. Look at how far you’ve come in a short span of time. Barnes, you’re metal as fuck just by default of managing to stand up and try after what you went through. Don’t give up.”

Bucky slowly nods, mostly just to get Clint to stop talking. It’s a lot to process in one go and he doesn’t think he can handle much more. 

Clint has a point though. He has come such a long way already. He can’t help but wonder what Steve would think about him now compared to how he was on the helicarriers or on the banks of the Potomac, but he really doesn’t want to talk about that right now.

Instead, he decides that he wants to know more about Natasha. He knows of the Avenger Black Widow of course, but he kind of wants to know more from Clint’s point of view. He glances at him through damp eyelashes.

“Where is Natasha now?”

Clint’s face falls at that. “She’s with Tony Stark,” he says, sounding sadder than Bucky has ever heard him. “She signed the Accords. I know she’s probably trying to do the right thing after the fuck up with SHIELD but…”

“Do you miss her?”

“With every piece of my heart that isn’t reserved for coffee or arrows,” Clint says and even though he’s joking about, it’s easy to tell how serious he is. “But don’t tell anyone. It’s kind of a thing we don’t talk about.”

That makes Bucky raise his eyebrows. “You two…?”

“Sometimes,” Clint says. “Sometimes not. We were getting more towards sometimes yes, maybe even a definite yes and then this shitshow hit.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I know you won’t be a dick about it,” Clint shrugs. “You mind if I sit with you for a bit? I’ll show you some more cool things on Youtube.”

Bucky nods without hesitation. “As long as they’re not more songs about robots.”

Clint smiles. “You’ve got yourself a deal.” 

 

* * *

That night, Bucky sits by his window in the moonlight and navigates his way back to the internet browser. This time, he takes a few steadying moments before carefully typing in  _ Steve Rogers. _

This time, most of the pictures are of Steve in civilian dress, out and about or with other Avengers. There’s the one of him outside Starbucks again, next to one of him crouching down next to a tiny little girl and gently shaking her hand. It looks like a paparazzi shot, with Steve unaware that he’s been caught. Bucky scrolls carefully through the first few lines and then stops dead because there’s a black and white picture and he knows it’s from the war because  _ that man next to Steve is him _ .

Steve is in his Captain’s uniform and Bucky is in that military issue shirt - god, he’d worn that for weeks, the shirt of four countries, Dugan had called it - with the missing button. They’re shoulder to shoulder and Bucky’s eyes are closed in mirth, caught midway through a laugh. Steve is grinning ear to ear and Bucky has no idea what’s been said to make them smile that way.

God, he misses that man.

Underneath the sadness though, Bucky feels something else. A strange flicker of warmth because there’s no other picture in which Steve looks so happy; yeah, he’s smiling in a few of the modern ones - when he’s not busy frowning or looking carefully blank - but he doesn’t look as happy as he did when he was snapped with Bucky.

Bucky goes back to the search bar and types in  _ Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes, _ but falters before he can hit enter. Maybe that’s too much in one go. He doesn’t want to end up a sobbing wreck again.

He turns the tablet off and puts it under his bed, next to his stash of liberated food from the kitchen. He rolls onto his back and blinks at the ceiling, thinking that the man he used to be is most definitely someone worth finding again, if only for the fact that that man could make Steve Rogers smile like that. 

 

* * *

Before breakfast the next day, Bucky locks himself in the bathroom, gets his washkit and stands ready to wage war on the weeks’ worth of facial hair that’s he’s accumulated since being in Iowa. He doesn’t even bother trying to tackle his hair but the beard is something that he thinks has to go.

He hardly dares look at himself when he’s done, but when he summons up the courage to finally lift his face to the mirror he’s shocked at how much younger he looks. 

Clint is the first to see him when he comes down for food and his eyebrows fly up. He even takes his sunglasses off to look properly. “Wow, you’re handsome son of a gun under all that fuzz,” he says and then turns to yell into the dining room slash tech centre. “Maria, come and look at Bucky’s face!”

Maria comes out and matches Clint’s levels of both shock and approval. She comes up close to Bucky and lifts her hand like she’s going to touch his jaw but thankfully she doesn’t, just smiles at him and then goes to make coffee.

“You look like you used to,” Clint says, cocking his head to the side. “Well, except for the birds nest on the top of your head.”

Bucky doesn’t reply, just slinks after Maria and hovers until he passes him a mug of coffee, looking mildly exasperated at his lurking. “Go away,” she says. “You’re being too quiet and it’s unnerving. Go skulk around somewhere else and I’ll bring you breakfast.”

Clint looks offended. “Why do you never bring me breakfast?”

“Bucky’s my favourite,” Maria says without an ounce of shame, and Bucky feels his cheeks go warm. He doesn’t know the proper reaction to that, whether he should say thank you or should run away or apologise to Clint?

He settles for flipping Clint off behind Maria’s back, taking his coffee and running away.

Maria’s laughter follows him as he collects his tablet and goes to sit outside. He claims a spot in the shade against the side of the barn, leaning back against the warm wood and letting the sounds of the wind in the grass and the insects soothe him. He’s really starting to appreciate the peacefulness of this place, the calmness that comes with such isolation. 

He drums his metal fingers against the side of the tablet and then opens up his search and types in  _ music of ww2. _ It’s almost overwhelming, the amount of names that come up that ping distant memories, the amount of frantic reshuffling his filing-cabinet-brain does as the music slots into places he hadn’t anticipated. Searching 1930’s music New York is even worse; he swears he can taste the alcohol and the smoke that went hand in hand with the swing music he used to love.

He works out how to save a few of the songs he prefers onto a playlist and quickly works out that Youtube is clever enough to start suggesting similar songs for him as he searches. 

By the time he's done he's gone nineteen songs, all queued up and waiting for him to play them once again. 

* * *

 

 

Clint asks him about the music over dinner that night. It’s turned into a ritual of sorts - they go about their jobs and do their own thing during the day but when Coulson calls out that he’s making dinner, everyone converges, coming together as the sun goes down and they safely ensconced themselves in the warm light of the kitchen.

“What did you find?” Clint asks, reaching across Fury for a bowl of cheese. “Anything better than the robot song?”

Bucky gives him a flat look. “Everything is better than the robot song.”

“Bite your tongue,” Clint says, dumping what seems to be an excessive amount of cheddar onto his plate. “You have no taste.”

“He has out of date taste,” Maria says, through a mouthful of burrito. Bucky flicks an errant piece of onion back at her and she grins at him.

Coulson looks exasperated. “Why do I cook for you, you’re all animals.”

Clint catches Bucky eye and he hides a smile in his metal palm. He feels like he knows this, this back and forth mischief and banter. Even though he can’t say for definite, he thinks that the blank spaces of memory that somehow know this camaraderie should be filled with Steve. 

“You know,” Fury says slowly, eye on Bucky. “World’s not gonna go back to nineteen-forty.”

Bucky shrugs his metal shoulder. “I know,” he says at his plate. “It’s a starting point, is all.”

“Leave him alone, he’s vintage,” Clint says, and Maria snorts into her dinner.

“Animals,” Coulson repeats, but he doesn’t sound angry. 

“Steve listens to vintage too,” Clint tells Fury. “He used to play what was it...that 'meet again' song on a loop, over and over.”

“Vera Lynn,” Maria fills in.

“That’s the one,” Clint says. “He only listened to pre-war stuff before Sam got at him and made him listen to something else.”

Maria nods. “I don’t know what was worse, the Vera Lynn or having Taylor Swift on repeat in the quinjet."

Bucky can’t say anything. His stomach always goes twisty whenever the conversation turns to Steve, sometimes in fear, sometimes in excitement and sometimes in the dark way he’s identified as jealousy. Thinking of Steve sat alone listening to the same music he’s been perusing all day...it does things to Bucky that he’s not sure he can deal with-

Bucky goes very very still and before he can process he’s on his feet, sending his chair screeching back as his head snaps towards the window. He stays perfectly still and sure enough, he can hear the low rumbling of an engine growing louder and louder and louder. 

“Barnes?”

“Barnes, you okay?”

Bucky’s stomach goes cold with fear. “Someone’s coming,”

“Shit!” Clint curses, and lunges across to grab his bow. “Barnes, get-”

“Everyone just calm down,” Fury shouts even as Maria and Phil jump up too, his hands spread out in an attempt to calm them all down. “I invited someone for dinner, everything is fine.”

Clint wheels around, looking confused. “What?”

“I left a message for someone,” Fury says, and sits back down. “Told him where we were and asked him if he’d like to join us for dinner. He’s actually half hour late, which isn’t like him.”

The sound of the engine gets louder and louder. Phil darts to the window, peering behind the curtain. “Well, that’s definitely a Harley Davidson,” he calls. The rumbling sound dies, leaving behind a quiet that is far too loud. “A customised street 750? And there’s only one man I know who drives one of those. Yeah, he’s coming in.”

Bucky stands there in utter shock, frozen in place as chaos seems to unfold around him. He’s a passenger again, left standing in the wake of things that are happening without his consent. Maria lets out a string of curse words and Clint just stares at Fury for a few moments, mouth hanging open. “You did not,” he manages, sounding strangled.

“I did and I’m not sorry,” Fury says.

“Oh you absolute bastard!” Clint says, lurching into action and scrambling towards the stairs. “I’m going to hide. Actually, scrap that-” he veers back around the table and beelines for Bucky. He looks like he’s going to grab him so Bucky hastily backs up, holding his hands up. The metal one unconsciously forms a fist but Clint doesn’t seem remotely bothered. “Barnes, hide!”

Bucky shakes his head. “What is going on?!”

“Come on, move,” Clint says, reaching to take hold of Bucky’s metal wrist and trying to pull him along. Bucky holds his ground, feeling his adrenaline spiking as Fury tells Clint to calm down, Coulson stepping forwards with intent, the jumble of voices almost masking the sound of footsteps outside-

Bucky yanks his wrist back out of Clint’s grip just as there’s a knock at the door. The urge to flee whiplashes back through him but Bucky’s frozen, lost without a weapon in his hand-

“Come in,” Fury shouts and Clint lets out a wordless yell, letting go of Bucky and hiding behind him as Coulson goes over to unlock the door and Bucky somehow knows exactly who is going to be standing there even before the door swings open.

“Hi, I had-” Steve begins, juggling keys and a helmet and a duffel bag. He doesn’t even get over the threshold before his eyes land on Bucky and he stops like he’s had his power cut. His eyes go wide and his mouth falls open slightly, the colour draining from his face.

“B – Bucky?” he manages in disbelief, and oh god he sounds exactly like he had done that day in DC, when he'd first locked eyes with the Winter Soldier and realised what was happening. 

The duffel bag and motorcycle helmet that had been in his hands fall to the floor with twin thuds. Coulson looks to Fury and then shrugs, easing a hand behind Steve’s back to push him into the room. Steve goes without argument, stepping forwards like he’s in a trance and allowing Coulson to shut the door behind him again.

Bucky feels like crying. He’s hyperaware of everyone’s eyes on him but the only set that he cares about are Steve’s.

He nods jerkily.

“What are you-” Steve begins helplessly. He doesn’t seem to have registered that there’s anyone else in the room but Bucky, taking a wavering step towards him. “What are you doing here?”

“Staying safe,” Bucky says. His hands are shaking and his heart is lodged somewhere up in his throat. His eyes are too warm.

Steve makes a noise like he’s been winded, his brow creasing. “But – but you-” he tries. Gives up, starts again with his fingers pressed to his mouth like he can somehow hold it all back. “I’m so fucking glad to see you in one piece.”

It’s the cussing that does it. Hearing Steve curse like that, so overcome with emotion and overwhelmed has Bucky moving on autopilot. He’s walking blindly towards Steve and Steve is stepping towards him and then he’s got Bucky wrapped up in his arms, holding him so tightly that Bucky can barely breathe. He winds his arms around Steve’s waist and just clings on for dear life, Steve’s arms tight around his shoulders and neck. Steve’s too warm and he’s sweaty and it’s like being crushed against a brick wall but Bucky thinks that someone’ll have to use a crowbar if they plan on prying them apart.

“I got you,” Steve murmurs into Bucky’s ear, sounding too close to tears himself. “I got you, Buck.”

Bucky just nods mutely into Steve’s collarbone. He should have done this before, on the riverbank, why did he run, why hadn’t he just given into the urge back then-

“Oh sure, I look after you for weeks and get nothing but a fistbump and he turns up and gets a hug,” Clint’s voice complains from nearby, and Bucky has to laugh, the noise muffled into Steve’s shirt and probably too close to a sob anyway.

Steve doesn’t seem to find it remotely funny. His whole body goes tense and he repeats “weeks?” in a voice that sounds distinctly unimpressed.

Uh-oh.

Bucky wants to pull away from the brewing argument but is settled startlingly easily by Steve setting a reassuring hand on the back of his neck. Bucky’s skin prickles and he finds himself shivering under the gentle touch, even as Steve’s voice goes to steel. It’s the type of voice that Bucky remembers everyone obeying, even when they didn’t want to.

“Okay, you four sit at that goddamn table and don’t move, you’ve got sixty seconds to tell me exactly  _ what the hell is going on _ .”


	5. Chapter 5

Bucky doesn’t want to let go. 

He wants to stay there forever in Steve’s arms, listening to the thump of his heart, smelling the scent of sweat and leather, feeling the rise and fall of his chest as he breathes. It feels like an overly vivid dream, a nightmare that’s waiting to kick into gear. Steve’s here, under his hands, safe and alive and nothing like what Bucky’s imagination or fractured memory has managed to conjure over the past few weeks. Surely it has to mean something that they’re both still here, both decades out of time but still here together-

Reality comes crashing back into interrupt as Steve shifts from foot to foot then gently loosens his hold on Bucky, pushing him back. He doesn’t go far though, much to Bucky’s relief. His hands go to Bucky’s upper arms, his eyes full of concern as he meets Bucky’s. 

It’s like a deep swelling ocean wave, an all encompassing rush of familiarity. It’s in the blue of Steve’s eyes, the bump on the bridge of his nose, the cleft between his eyebrows that shows his worry. Bucky remembers  holding a cold towel to that nose, wiping the blood off of that brow. A thousand spoken words and shared looks, a hundred more secrets and moments and-

And it’s too much. Bucky’s head aches with it and his stomach roils. His filing cabinet brain can’t keep up as he desperately tries to place the memories and sensations, trying to work out what this means for his missing sense of self. He has to break eye contact, tries to step back away from Steve but his legs aren’t cooperating and he wobbles, knees nearly giving out.

Strong hands catch him and hold him up, then there’s another body hovering close by him. Everything sounds muffled, like he’s underwater, but he can just about parse the worried inflections out of the murmur of voices. He swallows convulsively, trying to stay upright because he _cannot_ pass out, he is _not allowed to pass out._

But he’s not the Winter Soldier anymore. Maybe Bucky Barnes is allowed to pass out as much as he likes. 

With that distant thought floating into his awareness, he gives up fighting it. Everything goes muggy and swimmy for long grey moments and he’s only vaguely aware of things happening around him, to him. He lets the hands push and pull him about though, only because in the distantly functioning part of his brain he knows that it’s Steve that’s got him. 

When he comes to, he’s sitting on one of the battered couches and someone is kneeling in front of him, concerned. Clint, he thinks, the name settling in vague recognition.

“Just sit still, you’ve gone grey,” Clint says. “Maria’s making you a drink.”

“Steve,” Bucky mutters, pushing up out of the cushions and resting his elbows on his knees. His hands are shaking. “Where’s Steve?”

“He’s outside, talking to Fury,” Clint says. “Well, I think he’s yelling at him. Come on, sit back. You look like shit.”

Maria appears, coffee in hand. She presses it into Bucky’s and then perches on the edge of the couch, just far enough away.

“Well, he’s good looking but I didn’t think Steve had the power of making people pass out just by looking them in the eye,” she says.

Clint snorts with laughter. “Yeah, that was a bona fide swoon, Barnes.”

That’s probably worthy of a few insults in reply, but he opts for just thinking that Clint is being an asshole instead of saying it.

“Memories,” Bucky mutters, wrapping both hands around the mug and inhaling the smell of sugary coffee. “I remembered too much in one go.”

Maria opens her mouth to reply, her brow etched with concern, but before she can say anything she's beaten to it by the sound of raised voices coming from outside. They all turn their faces towards the window, Bucky wondering if he can get away with hiding back in the attic. “Is he yelling because you didn’t tell him I was here?”

Maria nods. “Mostly.” 

Clint nods. “Why do you think we’re in here? We’re not actually worried about you, we just don’t want to get yelled at for hiding you.”

They sit quietly for a while. Bucky sips at his coffee, letting the sugar work its magic and get him feeling more human. He’s about halfway down his cup when the voices from outside ratchet up another notch, a sharp shout that makes him jump.

“I’ll go,” Maria says, tired like she and Clint are parents of small children who are refusing to sleep. “They’ll be yelling at each other all night otherwise.”

“Phil’s out there, He’ll sort them out,” Clint says, unconcerned. “Did you make me coffee?”

“There’s some in the pot, go get it yourself,” Maria says, getting up. “I’ll be back.”

“Wait,” Bucky says, holding a hand out to stop her. “I’ll go.”

Clint and Maria exchange a look. “You sure?” Maria asks. She doesn’t look convinced.

Bucky nods, passing his coffee to Clint and slowly getting to his feet. “Yeah, I’m sure,” he says. “They’re arguing about me, right? I should go.”

“You don’t have to,” Clint says, so serious that he’s not even helped himself to Bucky’s coffee yet. 

“I want to,” Bucky says and Clint nods, understanding. Bucky takes a deep steadying breath and steps forwards, making his way through the house and to the back door. Coulson is standing just outside like some sort of security detail, watching the argument going on in front of him. Fury looks deliberately calm and collected; Steve looks furious. 

“Hydra were on his tail,” Fury is saying. “I sent Barton to extract him-”

The back of Steve’s neck is bright red. Bucky immediately thinks _oh shit_ , like he knows that tell and what it means. “I’m not arguing that!” Steve yells back at Fury. “I’m asking why the hell no-one told me!?”

“Cap, I suggest you calm down.”

“I suggest you shut the fuck up-”

“ _Steve!”_

Bucky’s shout is probably borne more out of shock than any calculated desire to end the fight. Despite the lack of planning, it works. Steve steps away from Fury, a hand coming up to rub at the back of his head. Fury stands with his arms folded, his one eye tracking Steve carefully. 

“We did not know if Barnes was staying, we did not know if he was in any fit state to see you,” Fury says evenly. “We didn’t want to say anything until we were sure both of you could handle it.”

“Stop telling me what I can handle!” Steve bursts out. Fury concedes, holding out a hand like he’s easing down an angry guard-dog. It doesn't work; Steve continues to rant like he's being fuelled by his own anger. “First Tony thinking I can’t handle the Accords and now you-” he cuts himself off, mouth pressing into a thin line. 

Bucky looks from Fury to Steve and back again. Despite the sun having set almost half an hour before, it’s still so goddamn hot, too hot for arguing and for all this confusion and anger. Even the insects sound tired, the evening shift of zipping and chirping lazy and slow like they’re wading through molasses.

Despite very much not wanting to, Bucky steps off the porch into the fading light. “Fury, give us a minute,” he says, tries to ignore the way his stomach curls because he’s just tried to tell authority what to do. _Fury is not Pierce,_ he reminds himself. “I want to talk to Steve.”

Fury doesn’t look like he wants to move - talk about an immovable object meeting an unstoppable force - but Coulson is already there. “Boss,” he calls, and Fury nods and goes back inside, leaving Bucky and Steve alone. 

“Are you okay?” Steve asks. “Shouldn’t you be sitting down?”

“I should be asking you,” Bucky says. “You’ve had a hell of a shock, you should be the one sitting down.”

Steve lets out a surprised laugh, pressing his fingers to his mouth. “I’m pretty resilient,” he says from behind his fingertips. 

“Humour me,” says Bucky, and gestures towards the barn. He wanders into the darkness at the side of it and sits down with his back against the warm wood. He settles facing the house so he can see if anyone’s coming, because he doesn’t know much but he does already know that at least three out of the four other occupants of the safe house are nosey sons of bitches. Steve follows and after a moment, sits down next to him. He obviously has either no awareness of personal space or doesn’t care, because he sits close enough so that their shoulders brush.

“You looking out for me,” Steve says, face turned towards the house. “Just like old times.”

Bucky’s memory flitters and trembles and he thinks he remembers a smaller, skinnier Steve berating him for weighing in on his behalf, but it slips away too quickly, like water in loosely cupped hands. He doesn’t mind too much though because the words have lit a sort of soft flare in his belly, a sort of pavlovian pleased response to Steve saying it’s like old times.

“I’m trying,” he says. “To remember the old times.”

Steve’s mouth hitches in a not-quite smile. One finger comes out to touch Bucky’s shirt, brushing against olive green cotton. “This reminds me of old times, too. I think it’s the colour.” 

Bucky’s not sure what to say. He thinks ‘thank you’ would be a bit strange, somehow. Steve seems happy to sit in silence for a while though, so Bucky lets him, content - if not happy - to just sit there with Steve. He’s a little dazed to be honest; Steve has been nothing more than a vague idea for weeks and now here he is, real and solid at Bucky’s side.

Bucky wants to touch him. He’s also aware that that might be considered strange so he keeps his hands to himself.

“I guess I should cut them some slack,” Steve finally breaks the silence, tipping his head back against the wall and looking contemplatively towards the house. “They’ve looked after you.”

“They have,” Bucky confirms. “I like them.”

“All of them?”

He glances sideways. Steve is watching him already, waiting. For a moment Bucky thinks that he’s trying to catch him out but it doesn’t hold much weight. Maybe Steve actually wants his opinion, which is a pretty far fetched notion indeed. Maybe Steve doesn’t trust all of them, maybe he knows something about one of them that means they’re not trustworthy and he’s probing to see if Bucky can tell him more.

Oh man. Bucky really, really doesn’t want to believe that.

“Why are you asking?” he asks quietly.

“Just want to see what you think of them,” Steve says, like it’s easy. “I’ve...well, lets say I don’t really trust my own judgement right now. I had people I called friends and it didn’t work out.”

Straight into the far-fetched notions it is then. Bucky feels a swell of alarm mixed with exasperation because honestly, Steve Rogers is ridiculous. “You’re trusting my judgement over your own?” he says, trying and probably failing to keep the incredulity out of his voice. “Last time we met I tried to kill you.”

Steve rolls his head sideways, looking straight at Bucky. His face is hidden in the fading light, most of it in shadow. “You didn’t,” he offers, corner of his mouth hitching up. “You remembered me. Which is exactly why I trust you.”

Bucky’s reaching out before he knows it. He can’t look at Steve but the urge to hold onto him is too strong to ignore; luckily, Steve catches hold of his hand in both of his own, pulling it against his chest. Fuck it, if touching Steve is strange then so be it. Bucky no longer cares. 

He flexes his fingers in Steve’s hold, turns his body slightly towards him. He wishes Steve would sling an arm over his shoulders and pull him in close but it’s probably too soon for that.

“Fury makes me nervous,” Bucky admits. “I think it’s the authority thing.”

“He’s all bark,” Steve says absently then heaves out another sigh, rubbing at his eyes. “They should have told me where you were.”

Bucky hesitates and then pushes at Steve with the hand that’s still clasped against his chest. Steve clearly isn’t expecting it and jerks to keep his balance before shooting Bucky a rueful smile.

“You can’t be mad at everyone,” Bucky says.

“Course I can,” Steve says. “It’s my number one talent.”

True, Bucky supposes. Despite missing anywhere between thirty and ninety percent of his memories, he certainly has a few memories of Steve being angry. Probably quite a high proportion involve him being angry, now he comes to think about it. “You mad at me?”

Steve’s mouth curls up again and it feels like the best thing Bucky’s seen since he left Romania. As good as warm coffee in his hands during a thunderstorm, as good as second helpings of Coulson’s mac and cheese.

“No, not at you,” Steve says, nudging Bucky back. “I missed you. God, you’ve got no idea. Since waking up, all I’ve wanted is-” He trails off, shaking his head in disbelief. “Sorry. I just. The guys are - were great but they weren’t you. Weren’t the Commandos.”

“Hard to connect with people who didn’t see it all, huh?”

Steve nods, grateful that Bucky understands. “Yeah. Though I did - I tried. But that blew up in my face too.”

Bucky toes his shoe into the dirt in front of them, watches it slide. “Clint told me about the Accords.”

Steve watches Bucky’s foot, too. “How about…” he says slowly. “You don’t make me talk about that right now and I won’t make you talk about DC?”

Bucky looks at him, tries to return Steve’s weak smile with one of his own. “Deal,” he says, and Steve’s smile gets stronger. 

 

* * *

 

They sit together for a while, watching the house as the last of the light vanishes, shrouding it in darkness. Steve doesn’t let go of Bucky’s hand and Bucky makes no effort to pull away.

After a while, Steve starts to gently stroke the back of Bucky’s hand with his fingers. And if it makes Bucky cry a little, he’s quiet about it, so only the darkness has to know.

 

* * *

 

It’s gone midnight when they finally head in, both moving in some unspoken agreement. Steve lets go of Bucky’s hand after pulling him to his feet but does rest a hand in the small of his back as he goes up the porch steps, as well as holding the door for him.

Bucky falters as he steps inside, meeting four still wide-awake and expectant faces. Steve also balks, shutting the door behind him and backing up against it, expression already turning mullish.

“Can we not argue anymore,” Bucky blurts out before anyone can say anything. He can practically feel Steve brewing up more things to yell at Fury. “I’m tired.”

Clint’s eyes go from Bucky to Steve and then back again, like he’s watching tennis. “But we want to know what you two have been talking about for the past-” he makes a show of checking his watch - “eight hundred hours.”

“World peace,” Steve says. “You heard him, he’s tired.”

“You were not talking about world peace, you are the angriest person I have ever met,” Maria says dismissively. 

Coulson’s brows go up. “Uh, Bruce Banner?”

Maria shrugs. “I still say Steve’s angrier. He can’t find five minutes of inner peace on a Sunday morning, let alone peace across the entire world.”

Steve holds a hand up like he's in class, his lips parting in mild affront. “I am here, you know.”

“Like we could miss you,” Clint grins at him and Steve rolls his eyes.

Coulson intervenes, as diplomatic as ever. “I think Barnes is right. We’re all tired. We could probably postpone round two till the morning. Steve, are you staying?”

“Try and get rid of me,” Steve says, folding his arms across his chest. 

“Okay, we get it,” Clint says. “Though you’ll have to take the other couch, we’re all out of beds.” 

Steve nods. “I don’t mind,” he says and then his eyes slide towards Coulson. “As long as no-one watches me sleeping.”

There’s a smattering of suppressed laughter around the table. Bucky’s gaze snaps towards Coulson too, feeling wrong-footed and like he’s missing something. Well he’s technically missing lots but this is a gap that’s making him feel lost and jealous and not a little bit desperate. 

“Luckily for you, I am no longer awed by your very presence,” Coulson says breezily. “I’ve woken up to the truth that you are a mere mortal like the rest of us.”

“A mere mortal with spectacular abs and healing factor,” Clint says, pointing finger guns. 

“A mere mortal who is going to bed,” Steve says, going to pick up his duffel bag and then turning back to the others with a tired smile. “So, where’s my couch?”

Clint gets up to show him the way. Maria heads upstairs. Fury takes all the mugs and puts them into the sink. Bucky stands there uselessly, watching them depart and wishing someone would explain why the hell Phil Coulson has been watching Steve while he sleeps. 

 

* * *

 

Bucky hovers around like some sort of nervous stray while Steve washes up and makes up the couch ready for bed. He doesn’t like the idea of Steve being down here in a separate room and he’s pretty sure everyone can tell by the way he’s being so jittery and getting in the goddamn way. 

Surprisingly, Clint isn’t the one who calls him on it. It’s Coulson who edges up to him, standing close but not touching, voice dropped down low. “How about...you get Clint to lock your valuables in the safe, I take your room for a night and you take the other couch?"

Bucky feels his eyes narrow, an involuntary reaction. “Sure you don’t want to watch him sleep some more?”

Coulson offers him a rueful smile. “I supervised the team that...defrosted him when he was found in the arctic,” he says. “I tried to explain that to him and put my foot in my mouth. They like to make fun.”

Well, damn. Now Bucky feels like an absolute heel for being jealous, more so because Coulson was just checking Steve was alive and not frost-bitten or brain damaged. Fuck. The jealousy turns into embarrassment and annoyance at himself. 

He nods. “That’d be…”

Nice? Necessary? He’s not sure which one but he’s already on it before he can second-guess, going to talk to Clint and then locking his notebooks and his picture of Steve safely away. With that taken care of, he nods Coulson into his room and then heads back downstairs.

Well, he makes it to the bottom of the stairs and then stops because it’s gone quiet and there’s no-one down there but Steve and he can hear him puttering around, the swish of a blanket, the creak of a floorboard. He closes his eyes for a long moment, just listening and letting Steve’s presence settle in his mind. 

“Buck?”

He opens his eyes, sees Steve standing in the doorway.

“You okay?”

Bucky steps off the bottom step onto the same level as Steve. “Coulson suggested a swap. I’m bunking with you, if you don’t mind.”

“Course I don’t mind,” Steve says. “Couch cushions on the floor?”

\- _seventeen and scrawny, sleeping with his mouth hanging open and his face mashed into a pillow, grumbling as Bucky pushes as him with a socked foot, trying to roll away and tipping off the edge of the cushions onto the floor-_

“Might as well leave them on the couch,” Bucky says, wishing he could just walk in and throw himself onto the couch like he would undoubtedly have done in the past. He can almost feel his body doing it, but it doesn’t sit entirely right.

Instead, he waits for Steve to beckon him in, nodding and slipping into the room like a shadow. He curls up on the couch, watching as Steve settles on the other. Blue eyes find him out as Steve slumps onto his side, propping his head on his arm.

“Can't believe you’re actually here,” he murmurs.

“Better believe it,” Bucky says. “Want me to pinch you?”

Steve’s smile gets wider. “You might have to,” he says. “Hey, would it be weird if I watched you all night?”

“Very,” Bucky tells him, voice low so that he doesn’t disturb anyone upstairs. “And you objected about Coulson doing it to you.”

“He didn’t know me,” Steve says. “I’ve known you all your life. So it’s not as creepy.”

Bucky finds himself smiling back. “Still creepy.”

“Yeah, now I said it out loud,” Steve concedes. “You okay?”

Bucky nods. “Go to sleep, Steve.”

“Whatever you say, pal,” Steve says, and rolls over onto his side, his back to Bucky. Bucky watches the shift of his shoulders under the thin tee he’s wearing, sees how they relax as Steve exhales. His eyes track the exposed back of Steve’s neck, down his spine to his waist. _Too vulnerable_ , he thinks but then that thought is overtaken by one that sounds suspiciously like a mission.

 _You can protect him against anything_ , it says, and Bucky believes it. 

 

* * *

 

Bucky doesn’t sleep. He acts like a more unkempt and murderous Coulson, and watches Steve all night long. It takes Steve over an hour to fall asleep but he does, the twitches of his feet and hands signalling a REM sleep cycle before he goes completely still and lax. 

Bucky thinks about what he’d do if something did try and hurt Steve while he’s so vulnerable, but when the only answer he can come up with is ‘get violent’ he decides that he won’t be thinking about that anymore. Old him wasn’t violent, not like it’s so easy for the Winter Soldier to be. 

He makes his eyes drowsy and half-lidded when Steve starts to stir, only opens them fully when Steve rolls over and softly whispers his name.

“Buck?”

“Mmm?” he says.

“I dreamt you were gone,” Steve whispers, like he’s afraid. Idiot. He should be afraid of Bucky, not what happens to Bucky.

“No,” Bucky replies. “It’s early. You should sleep some more.”

Steve pushes himself into a sitting position. Of course he does, like he’s ever going to listen to someone's advice about his health and wellbeing. He pulls a face, plucking at the neck of his shirt. “I need a shower,” he says. “Goddamn it’s hot.”

“You get used to it,” Bucky says. “Go, before Clint gets up and hogs all the hot water.”

Steve laughs at that, rubbing his face. “Now that is like old times,” he says. “Not had to worry about hot water for a while.”

“Yeah, you’ve been living the high life, right?”

Steve shrugs, getting to his feet. “Yeah, I’ve taking advantage of modern hospitality,” he says. “And Tony Stark’s money,” he adds as an almost rueful afterthought. He looks right at Bucky and does that small smile that’s one part sad and two parts relieved. “I’d rather be here, hot water and no air con be damned,” he says simply, and then he’s gone, out of the room and up the stairs, so light on his feet that the boards barely creak.

 

* * *

 

The rest of the house wake up while Steve is still in the bathroom, and the morning goes from peace to chaos in twenty seconds flat. 

Coulson starts banging pots and pans about in the kitchen. Maria starts banging on the bathroom door, telling Steve to hurry up. Clint stands in front of the coffee maker, clutching a mug and blinking owlishly. Fury gets the news up on the tablet and fills any available space with the placid midwestern tones of the CNN anchor. Bucky panics, steals an apple then panics even more because while he’d moved his notebooks into the safe, his stash of stolen food is still under his bed and if Coulson has touched it he’s going to be both furious and mortified.

He sneaks away and finds it’s still there, exactly where he left it. He adds the apple and makes to tiptoe back downstairs-

-and runs into Steve on the landing. Steve. Who is wearing knee-length shorts but is otherwise shirtless, a towel looped around his neck. He’s clean and damp and smells of the same peach body wash that’s in Bucky’s wash bag, even though Bucky’s only used it a grand total of four times since moving in.

“Hi,” Steve says brightly, smiling wide like he can't help it. “You want next?”

Bucky shakes his head, even as Maria yells from downstairs, “You jump the queue Barnes and I will end you!”

Steve looks mildly alarmed.

“Don’t worry,” says Bucky. “I’m her favourite.”

Steve’s smile goes bemused. They stand there for long awkward seconds, while Bucky tries not to notice that Steve’s chest is right there. Why does he even care? He and Steve have known each other for years, it’s never been a big deal that-

_-army issued uniform falls to the floor in abandoned heaps as the team scramble for the showers. Bucky is stuck in the straps of his rifle and trying to get out of his jacket and then feels his stomach going warm as Steve literally peels himself out of his uniform jacket, dropping it atop the shield and cursing as he hops on one foot, trying to tug off a leather boot that’s caked in weeks of mud. Dernier is laughing and Bucky is steadfastly ignoring the ache in his bones that has nothing to do with tiredness and everything to do with-_

Longing. Wanting.

Bucky wanted Steve before. He wanted to touch, to kiss, to feel. And he’d ignored it. There on the landing, he recognises that pull of longing and promptly wants to throw himself down the stairs. He’s such an idiot - how could he not know this already? _Maybe you always knew,_ a little traitorous voice says, _You just got real good at ignoring it._

“Move,” comes a demanding voice, much louder than the one in the back of his brain. “Out of the way, you are between me and the bathroom and I will make you pay,” Maria is halfway up the stairs and Bucky dives back towards his room so he’s out of her path. Steve dives after him, nearly crashing right into him as Maria charges behind them and slams the bathroom door behind her.

“Rogers, you pig, put the goddamn seat down!” she shouts through the door. “You’re supposed to be a gentleman!”

“You start telling me things and I’ll start putting the seat down!” Steve yells back through the door, and then looks at Bucky, biting his lip sheepishly. “I’m only joking, I’m not a complete animal.”

He’s way too close. Bucky takes a hasty step back, looking down at the floor. He tries to think of what to say but he can’t, it’s all too much and he wants to hide away from it all, from the memories and Steve’s stupid bare chest that’s just reminded him about the way he used to notice the way men walked, the slopes of their shoulders and the curve of their lips.

“Buck?”

Steve’s voice is concerned.

“I need-” Bucky says, unsteady. He shuts his eyes tightly. “You keep making me remember things.”

It’s not a complete lie and luckily it diverts Steve from whatever the hell that moment just was. “Shit,” he says. “You need to sit down?” 

Bucky shakes his head and then the play promptly backfires as Steve wraps an arm around Bucky’s waist, probably trying to keep him steady. “What can I do?”

“Coffee,” Bucky says. “I need coffee. Get off, I’m okay-”

He wriggles out of Steve’s helpful-but-completely-not hold and grabs hold of the bannister. It creaks ominously under his metal fingers and he hastily lets go, horrified. He tucks his hand behind his back, hoping that Steve didn’t notice because whatever the metal arm is, it’s definitely not like old times. 

He makes himself move, Steve following close behind. He gets all the way into the kitchen and into a chair, with stupid shirtless Steve hovering like a worried mother-hen. There’s movement around him and he jumps back in alarm, chair screeching on the tiles.

“Just me, Barnes,” Fury says, slow and calm. “At ease, soldier.”

“I am _not_ a soldier,” Bucky says, his voice cracking. 

“Leave him alone, Nick,” Steve says, voice pitched at a warning. “Clint, can you - thanks.”

Bucky takes his face out of his hands when he hears the soft thud of a mug being set down in front of him. He grabs for it straight away, holding it close to his chest and hunching over it like he’s scared that someone is going to take it away.

“This been happening a lot?” Steve asks, pulling out a chair next to him. He leans forwards with his elbows braced on his knees, face a stupid handsome picture of concern. The idiot is still shirtless and it is still a problem. 

Bucky presses his lips together hard. He wants to say ‘no, I only realise that I’ve got a huge fucking crush on you every seventy years or so,’ but he doesn’t. He just nods mutely and Steve gives him a funny look, like he knows Bucky's holding back. _Did I used to be sarcastic?_ he thinks dumbly but he’s too blindsided by his stupid queer brain to even attempt digging for an answer.

Luckily, Clint has his back. “Not too much,” he says, seesawing his hand. “Enough so that I’m going ‘hey, Bucky’s getting memories back!’ rather than ‘oh god Bucky’s brain is melting.’”

Steve blinks. “You know what, I’m just going to take that as a good thing.”

“It is a good thing!” Clint insists. “Look, Cap, as an expert in brainwashing and the nasty after-effects, I am saying that he’s fine. Well, he needs to get over his issues with the shower but he’s fine.”

“Issues with the shower?” Steve echoes and Bucky decides that he’s had enough.

“Go fuck yourself,” he says to Clint. “Have we not got anything else to fucking talk about today?”

Clint’s mouth opens in delighted shock and Fury leans back in surprise but all Steve does is slowly smile, like Bucky being obnoxiously rude is the answer he’s been waiting for.

__

* * *

 

Bucky is left in peace to finish his coffee. Once he’s satisfied that Bucky’s brain is not going to melt, Steve asks to talk to Fury about official sounding things. They go off into the repurposed dining room and Bucky is left sitting with Clint. Clint offers to let him shoot his bow and when Bucky declines he offers to let Bucky watch him shooting his bow. Bucky’s social calendar isn’t exactly packed and he thinks it might be good to get away from stupid shirtless Steve, so he agrees. 

He pops his head in to tell Steve where he’s going. Steve nods, tells Bucky to fetch him if he needs _anything at all Buck, I’m serious, you gottit?_ Bucky shoots him a thumbs up and then flees, stopping only to retrieve his notebook and pencil before joining Clint outside. 

He settles with his back against the deck, behind Clint so there’s no chance of him getting shot. Clint’s aim is so good that he suspects he could probably be sat underneath the target and not be in any danger, though he thinks he shouldn’t push Steve to the brink by testing that theory out.  

He jots down a few odd words. Listens to the thump of arrows against the boss and Clint swishing through the grass to retrieve them.

“So, what’s up, Bucky Bear?”

And also listens to Clint’s curious questioning, apparently. 

“Nothing,” Bucky lies, closing his notebook, the pencil trapped between the pages.

“Bullshit,” Clint says easily. “You telling me that you’re not at all bothered by Steve showing up?”

Bucky twists around, casting an alarmed glance at the windows of the house. “Shuddup, Clint!”

“You so are,” Clint snorts. “You’re not the only one, don’t sweat it.”

Bucky doesn’t reply; for all he knows Steve is close enough to the window inside to hear them talking. He doesn't think Steve would spy on him because Steve’s not that kind of guy, but he also has had first hand experience of Steve’s surprising machiavellian streak, usually employed on behalf of the greater good.

Well, that’s a contradiction in itself but he thinks it'll do for now. Steve is complicated.

He writes that down in his notebook, sighs heavily. Isn’t surprised when Clint stops shooting and comes to sit next to him, leaning back against the sun-warmed wood and resting his bow across his knees. 

Chewing on his lip, he opens his notebook up and shows Clint what he’s just written. Sharing it feels a bit like jumping off a cliff.

But Clint doesn’t comment on it, just reads the three words and then nods, a rueful little smile curving his lips. He glances around and then holds out his hands, questioning.

“Don’t turn the pages,” Bucky says and then hands over the notebook.

 _He is but I trust him and I’m glad he’s here,_ Clint writes and shows Bucky before writing more. _I think he’s going to find being fired from the Avengers hard. He’ll need us._

Now that startles Bucky. He hasn’t even thought about that, about the mess left behind by the Accords, about how Steve might be hurting. Shame washes through him and he vows fiercely to do whatever he can to help Steve. He knows Steve would do the same for him.

Bucky takes the notebook back and writes _yes._ He keeps hold of the pencil though, wondering if he can write anything else, if he can trust Clint with the revelations of the morning.

He closes the notebook. 

Not now. Not yet.

__

* * *

 

Steve comes out of the house not half an hour later, looking harried but at least wearing a shirt. He beelines for Bucky and Clint and sits down next to them, right there in the grass.

“Did you kill Fury?” Clint asks.

“No,” Steve says. “Running out of friends, can’t spare him.”

Bucky kicks out at him, glaring. Steve catches his ankle, easily pushing him away. 

“You’ve got us,” Clint says. “Who else do you need? You still upset about Stark? I mean, fuck that guy. He went behind our backs and expected us all to be grateful?”

“Yes, he did,” Steve says shortly. “Don’t - I don’t even want to talk about him. I’m not sure I can be polite.”

“Why would you even want to be polite?” Clint asks, more scornful than Bucky has ever heard before. “He went behind your back, he took your team from you and he’s either brainwashed Wanda or has her locked up. I don’t think polite is what we need to be.”

“He was my friend,” Steve says firmly. “He did what he thought he had to do-”

“Uh, like he did with Ultron?” Clint interrupts.

That makes Steve pause. He heaves out a sigh, flopping onto his back on the grass and covering his eyes with his forearm. “Yeah, you’re right,” he says. “Fuck that guy.”

That makes Clint laugh, and Steve’s mouth quirks in an almost-smile. He doesn’t uncover his eyes, so Bucky takes a few moment just to look at the way his shirt is all twisted around his armpit, the obscene bulge of his bicep, the gentle rise and fall of his chest as he breathes.

“I’m not kidding about Wanda though,” Clint says. “Something’s up there.”

“Yeah,” Steve says. “Me and Sam said the same. Speaking of, I'll invite him to join us here if you don't mind.”

Clint nods. Bucky does not share his sentiments because he doesn't have any idea who this Sam is that Steve's inviting to their house. His brain pings with a memory and it's a recent one: Fury talking about Sam Wilson and Steve Rogers being MIA. Unaccounted for. On the run. Presumably together. 

 _A teammate_ , Bucky thinks, and then another memory latches itself onto the last. Clint saying about Sam making Steve listen to modern music. 

“Is Sam okay?” Clint asks. 

“He's holding up,” Steve says. “Honestly don't know how he's putting up with me.”

Clint snorts. “You know why,” he says, and Bucky promptly decides that he doesn't want this Sam anywhere near him or Steve or the safehouse because he’s petty and jealous.

Steve doesn't reply directly to that comment. “I'll call him later,” he says. “When he gets here we can make a plan of action regarding Wanda.”

 “Good,” Clint says. “I like plans of action.”

“Is this plan of action going to be legal?” Bucky asks.

Steve peers out from under his forearm. “Probably not,” he admits, rolling over onto his side like he’s a damn model or something, all stretched out with his head propped on his fist. “But I don’t have any other options.”

 _He's going to fight_ , Bucky thinks distantly. _He's going to go head first into another battle with only his-_

Wait a moment. 

“Steve, where’s your shield?” Bucky asks quietly, and Steve’s face falls.

“They took it,” he says bitterly. “Apparently it’s property of the government. As is the identity of Captain America. I didn't sign the Accords, so I had to give them both up.”

He shrugs like it’s nothing, but it’s lit a raging fury within Bucky. He’s been trying his damnest not to get angry, to be calm and as far away from the violence of the Winter Soldier as he can, but hearing that makes him want to tear something - or someone - apart.

“Fuck them all by the sounds of things,” he says, and reaches out to press a hand to Steve’s shoulder, trying to show him that he's got his back. Steve immediately reaches up and squeezes Bucky’s hand, gratitude written all over his face. 

“Clint’s right,” he says and his smile seems real enough to Bucky. “It’s okay. I got you guys.”

 

* * *

 

Steve and Clint carry on on chatting about things and people that Bucky has no idea about, so he makes a tactical retreat and goes for a nap. He could have stayed and asked about it all and he’s sure they would have filled him in with more than enough intel, but he’s already dealing with one bout of jealousy and he’s not sure he can handle any more. 

It’s actually pretty easy. He trusts Clint to look after Steve and providing Steve doesn’t do anything too spectacularly stupid….well, Coulson and Maria are both available to stop him if needs be.

He gets his notebook, writes ‘I am queer’ on a new page, then rips it out and screws it into a ball. He thinks about burning it but knows the the smell will draw attention. He opts for flushing it down the toilet instead, hoping that it doesn’t completely screw up the already temperamental plumbing. 

 

* * *

 

For the rest of the day, he drifts. He tries valiantly to stay focussed and present but he’s just so overwhelmed by everything that it’s a real struggle. He eats lunch when Maria brings it to him, sits at the table for dinner when Clint comes to fetch him. Steve sits at his side, elbow gently brushing his, the closeness making his throat go tight, eyes glittering with tears. He even lets Clint bully him through the shower again, too tired to argue.

When he steps out of the bathroom, dripping wet and too warm, Steve is there waiting for him. “Tough day, huh?” he asks, gently.

Bucky listens but he can’t hear anything coming from downstairs. Steve glances around, gesturing at nothing. “They’re having a few beers on the deck,” he offers. “I guessed you didn’t want to join them.”

“I just get-” Bucky blurts out, then curses himself and takes a deep breath. “I’m okay. It’s just a lot.”

“You’ve been through a lot,” Steve says quietly. The landing is dark and quiet and Bucky feels like he could shatter, right there in the whispered shadows.

“I’ve put people through a lot,” Bucky mutters.

“Well,” Steve says with a shrug. “I can’t do anything about that right now, but my best pal is standing right in front of me and maybe I can help him.” 

Steve reaches out and his fingers curl around Bucky’s wrist - his real wrist, and his fingers are blood hot on Bucky’s skin. He leads him downstairs and into the lounge, indicating the couch that he’d spent the night sleeping on. Too exhausted to figure it out, Bucky sits.

“Now I know it’s been a while,” Steve says, crouching down to dig in his duffel bag. “But the Bucky Barnes I knew wouldn’t be able to stand going out looking like a dog’s dinner.”

“You callin’ me a dog’s dinner, Rogers?” Bucky mumbles. Christ, he’s so tired and not with it that he feels drunk.  

“I’m not even sorry,” Steve says. He straightens up and there’s a hairbrush in one hand, a comb in the other. “Brace yourself, Barnes.”

Bucky feels his eyes go wide. “You - you don’t have to." His cheeks are going warm. “Christ, Steve.”

“It’s happening,” Steve says easily. “Deal with it.”

Bucky doesn’t think he has the energy to argue. When has he ever had the energy to argue with Steve though, especially when Steve’s got that determined glint in his eye? He ends up sitting not on the couch but on the floor, between Steve’s knees and leaning back against the front of the couch.

To begin with it’s one part ‘ _is this happening?’_ and two parts ‘ _fucking ouch.’_ His hair is in such a state that it takes Steve over an hour to sort it out. He has to grip chunks in his carefully closed fist and and brush out the very bottom tangles, moving up in increments before he can even attempt at brushing the full length. Bucky can’t work out if he loves the care and attention that Steve is showing him, or if he hates the fact his stupid long hair is nothing like how it used to be. It’s an incongruence that he’s horribly aware of - Steve is talking about the good old days and how Bucky used to be, but dealing with something that’s so completely different. It could only be worse if Steve had volunteered to polish the plates of his fucking metal arm. 

He decides to go back to drifting. He sinks into the sensation of Steve carefully brushing his hair and revels in the kindness and gentleness, even though that he knows that being close to Steve like this is going to open up a whole new can of worms. Or maybe the same old can all over again.

By the time the brush is gliding through his hair with no resistance, he’s mush in Steve’s hands. His cheek is pressing against the solid muscle of Steve’s thigh and he’s so relaxed that he could easily fall asleep.

He knows Steve could have stopped ages ago. He’s selfish enough to not mention it, staying exactly where he is.

“Steve?” he murmurs as the brush makes another smooth pass down his scalp and to his shoulders. It catches slightly on the collar of his shirt.

“Mmm?”

“Thanks.”

The brushing carries on. “You’re welcome,” Steve replies, and Bucky feels fingers stroke through his hair too.   


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope people are still enjoying this! I'm still desperately in love with telling this story even if I'm super busy with work right now.

_\- trudging through six inches of snow, feet feeling leaden and like his boots have been magnetised and the earth is made of iron. Looking up and making out the outline of the shield, the swaying circle of red, white and blue that is just visible in the endless flurries of snow. He struggles to drag his feet up out of the drifts, forlornly cursing the cold and his inability to just say no, to not follow that damn shield everywhere it goes-_

Bucky jerks awake in a sudden rush of shock and fear, for a moment unsure what’s happening but knowing he’s abruptly very fucking awake oh god-

He’s on his feet and looking wildly around, realizing simultaneously that a) Steve has also scrambled to his feet, bewildered, sleep fuddled and with his hair scruffed all over the place, and b) the cause of their rude awakening is music, blaring obnoxiously loud from the kitchen.

“Rise and shine, super-soldiers!” an equally loud and obnoxious voice shouts over the music. Bucky is still completely thrown for a loop but he has enough mental capacity left to think that it’s ridiculous for anyone to be labelling him and Steve under the same title. Neither of them are soldiers anymore, and he is certainly not super.

“Good morning from me and Mister Cash!” the voice shouts gleefully, and Bucky registers that it’s Clint. Of course it’s Clint, who else would be this annoying this early in the morning. Even Coulson waits until after coffee to start badgering people.

“What the fuck, Clint,” Steve manages, collapsing back onto the couch with his hands over his face.

“Who's here?” Bucky asks, imagining yet another wayward figure turning up at the safehouse, taking up his space and touching his stuff and eating his food and getting in the goddamn way-

“Mister Cash?” Clint says, leaning against the doorway and jerking a thumb over his shoulder. “Johnny Cash? The music. Southern rock and roll?”

“Turn it off,” Steve says, voice muffled by his hands. “It’s too early for that shit.”

“First of all, how dare you,” Clint says. The man carries on singing, something about falling down, down down. Bucky’s not altogether liking it. “Show some respect,” Clint continues sternly. “And second, it’s ten in the AM, you lazy fucks.”

 _What?_   Bucky thinks. He literally can’t remember sleeping so long and so late _ever_. As if it’s suddenly realized the time too, his stomach rumbles, evidently annoyed at missing its usual six am feed.  He looks over as Steve groans theatrically, pushing himself up and running his fingers through his hair. Bucky shivers, remembering the feel of these fingers threading through _his_ hair the night before.

“Okay,” Steve says. “Point taken. Let me get washed up and then we can talk duties for the day.”

Bucky shares a glance with Clint. He kind of wants to point out that they were getting along just fine without Steve there captaining the hell out of everything, but he remembers Clint’s written words from yesterday. Maybe Steve needs something to captain the hell out of right now, even something as basic as a chores list.

 

* * *

 

Steve does captain the hell out of the chores list. He makes an honest to god _rota_. It gets stuck up in the one place that everyone is bound to see - on the front of the refrigerator. Clint bitches and moans. Maria puts up a token protest, mostly because she likes pretending to give Steve a hard time. Coulson just shrugs, possibly wondering what he’s going to do now seeing as the rota has reduced his workload by around a third. Bucky has no idea what a man like Coulson would do with his spare time; maybe the man secretly likes knitting or watercolour painting or cage fighting or something. Even Fury obeys the duty rota, which is actually a strange blessing in disguise because seeing him mucking in with more things helps Bucky to separate him from Pierce a little more.

And Bucky? Bucky adores the list. Firstly because it’s just so Steve, and secondly because Steve hasn’t hesitated to give Bucky the same amount of duties as everyone else.

 

* * *

 

His first day of chores done, and Bucky sits out on the porch, eyes closed and face turned towards the early evening sun. He’s sweating like crazy, dark patches under his arms and over the back of his grey button down shirt but he can’t bring himself to care. Steve’s hardly left his side all day, and that’s making Bucky feel like the warmth of the sun has found a home in his belly. He can’t believe how much more at ease he is with Steve there, like he’s suddenly found an anchor in this whole swirling ocean of his life. Even if Steve - stupid, beautiful Steve - makes some things more difficult, it’s a small price to pay. 

“Hey.”

A soft voice makes Bucky crack an eye open; it’s Steve, standing there in the doorway with marinara sauce on his shirt and a beer in each hand. He’s been gone for around an hour, helping prepare dinner just like the duty rota told him to do.

“Can I join you?” he asks, gesturing to the space next to Bucky.

Bucky’s pretty much been sitting there waiting for Steve to come back, so he nods, wordless. Steve comes and sits down next to him, stretching his legs out so his dark blue jeans are alongside Bucky’s pressed slacks. Steve hands him a beer and Bucky takes it; his first in over seventy years. Part of his brain decides absolutely not, that lowering his inhibitions and reflexes is not acceptable. The rest of him wants to down it in one go, so he listens to that part and does. Steve huffs out a laugh and hands Bucky the one he’d just taken a sip from, getting up to go and retrieve some more.

“Can you get drunk?” he asks Bucky as he sits back down, a six-pack of bottles at his side.

“Don't know,” Bucky shrugs.

“I can’t,” Steve says a little sadly. “Metabolism.”

“You were a grumpy drunk anyhow,” Bucky says and Steve laughs softly.

“I was delightful, don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

Bucky’s mouth hitches up at the corner. “Your ego been allowed to take over without me busting your balls for it?”

Steve grins. “Something like that.”

They fall into companionable silence. Bucky drinks two more beers and doesn’t feel drunk, but it doesn’t really matter. What _does_ matter is that the taste pings some sort of sense memory in his brain and he finds himself craving a cigarette with an intensity that shocks him. It’s the sort of intensity that he usually reserves for looking through a sniper sight, not that that is a good metaphor to use when he’s trying to move away from that side of him.

He’s just started wondering what family members he’d sell to get his hands on a packet of smokes when Steve speaks again. Good thing really, because he doesn’t have any family members to sell even if he wanted to.

He’s getting maudlin. Maybe he _is_ drunk.

“Do you remember Henderson?” Steve asks, straight to the point as always.

Bucky thinks, then has to shake his head. “No.” 

“What about Nately?”

Now that does make something stir. A faint rustle, the sensation of thoughts trying to connect, drifting and stretching and pushing. “Nately,” Bucky says slowly. “He...he fell off a balcony?”

“Fire escape,” Steve confirms. “Mrs Janowitz’s fire escape.”

“He broke both ankles,” Bucky says, the thoughts finally grasping and locking, pulling their friends from different drawers in his mind. _New York, 1934_ bangs open. “He used to climb up drain pipes and walls on dares, trying to impress girls.”

Steve nods. “Stupid kid. He was asking for trouble, really.”

Bucky lowers his beer, mouth falling open in affront. The words are out there before he can even think about biting them back. “I cannot fuckin’ believe that statement even made it past your teeth,” he says and Steve positively cackles, head thrown back and eyes screwed shut.

 _Oh,_ Bucky thinks, heart skipping as he watches Steve laugh and laugh. This finding himself business is definitely a go if he’s already capable of making Steve laugh like that.

Steve laughs himself quiet, still grinning. “Here’s to remembering,” he says, holding his beer up.

Bucky nods, and gently clinks his bottle to Steve’s.

 

* * *

 

It takes Bucky only a few days to decide that if anyone tries to separate him and Steve again, he will object. Not with extreme prejudice because he doesn’t do that anymore, but still. 

He’ll think of something.

And as Steve smiles at him across the table or across the deck or yard or lounge, he thinks the feeling might just be mutual.

 

* * *

 

The next morning, they’re awoken by soft classical music that drifts slowly into their awareness to rouse them from slumber: a Coulson wake up call that is infinitely easier to deal with than a Clint one. Bucky blinks and the ceiling for a while, just listening. It's beautiful and soft, the voices of the women singing making him feel peaceful and calm. He thinks he recognizes it, the song nudging at some distant memory but for once he doesn't fight it, doesn't try and force it. He just accepts that he's lost his memory of the song and appreciates the fact he's managed to find it again. Yawning, Bucky rolls onto his back on the couch and rubs at his eyes, before looking over at Steve. Steve is already looking at him, face all sleepy and soft and it makes Bucky’s stomach swoop with want. 

Steve smiles and then rolls up off the couch. He stretches, pulling his sweaty shirt off before jogging for the stairs. Bucky lifts his head from the cushions, letting his eyes linger of Steve’s bare shoulders and the dip of his spine just above his shorts. It’s not at all conducive to his ‘hide the queer’ thing he’s got going on but he’s honestly not got enough willpower to resist.

Apparently half naked Steve is not the only thing he can’t resist. He’s in the middle of breakfast and sipping his coffee when it hits him again; an undeniable and all encompassing craving for cigarettes. It’s so strong that he abandons his post-breakfast plans of writing down everything he remembers about the snowstorm of 1941 - his and Steve's chosen topic for reminiscing the night before - instead going to find Coulson.

“Coulson?”

Phil turns around, eyes lingering on the open pages of his book for a moment before he looks up at Bucky. “You okay, Buck?”

“Yeah, just wondering,” Bucky begins, glancing over his shoulder. Asking for things for himself that aren’t mission critical is not allowed. He shakes his head to get rid of the cold, disapproving voice.

“You’re still down on the rota to go into town this week, right?”

“Today,” Coulson tells him. “Wilson’s arriving today so I’m picking up an extra bed. Why, you want something?”

The shock is like a kick in the stomach and Bucky tenses, involuntary. “Today?” he asks in disbelief, derailed from his cigarettes mission. Steve hadn’t said anything, hadn’t told Bucky that his other best friend would be turning up today, with no warning.

“I’m coming with you,” Bucky says abruptly.

Coulson pauses. “You sure?”

“Absolutely,” Bucky says, heart thudding too quickly. “Let’s go.”

“Let’s go where?”

Bucky and Coulson both spin on their heels and come face to face with Clint, who has his bow in hand and a suspicious look on his face.

“Nowhere,” Phil says.

“You’re going into town,” Clint says, eyes narrowing further.

Coulson looks mildly exasperated. “Why ask where we’re going if you know?”

“To see if you’d lie,” Clint shoots back, and splays a hand over his heart, sticking out his bottom lip in an exaggerated pout. “Betrayal hurts, Phil.”

“I want to go,” Bucky says in an undertone. “You gonna help or what?”

“Okay but when we get back I am hiding behind you when Steve starts yelling,” Clint says, already backing up towards the door. “Let’s go.”

“You’re coming?”

“Not about to let you run into trouble now, am I?” Clint shouts back. “I’m picking the music!”

Bucky glances at Coulson as Coulson slides on his sunglasses. “Means we’ll end up with either country music or thrash metal.”

“Of course,” Bucky says, and glances back towards the stairs. “Come on, before Cap comes down and insists on coming as well.”

 

* * *

 

They’re forty minutes into the three hour drive when they’re rumbled. Coulson is driving, Clint is sitting in the middle singing along loudly to more southern Texas rock and roll and Bucky is hunched against the window, forehead on the glass as he watches the scenery whip by. 

Then Clint’s phone starts ringing.

“Oh, shit,” Clint says, reaching out to turn the music down with one hand and holding his phone away from his body with the other, staring at it like it might explode. “Bucky, answer it.”

Clint shoves the phone at Bucky, who shoves it back. “It’s your phone.”

“Yeah but he won’t yell at you, he’ll yell at me!”

“Oh for god’s sake,” Coulson says, and holds his hand out. “Give me the phone.”

Clint does and for a moment Bucky thinks that Coulson is slipping into an unwilling parent role here. Bizarrely, that’s easier to comprehend than Clint giving Bucky the role of super-soldier.

“Cap, hi,” Coulson says, easy as you please. “I have them both, Clint was whining about Oreos and Bucky was about to start killing to get his hands on cigarettes - cigarettes, yeah. Old habit, huh? Yeah he’s safe - Clint was meant to tell you and he thought I’d told you. No he's not really killing, I was exaggerating. Yeah, you want - okay.”

Without taking his eyes off the road, Coulson holds the phone back out, across Clint and clearly pressing it towards Bucky. Both in awe of Coulson’s smooth-talking, lying ass and a little bit nervous about what’s coming his way, Bucky lifts the phone to his ear.

“Hey.”

There’s a loud exhale from the other end of the line. “You just took off, I got worried there.”

“I’m okay.”

There’s another pause. “Would have appreciated it if you’d let me know.”

“What, like you let me know that Sam Wilson would be turning up today?”

Clint’s jaw drops and he turns to look at Bucky, somewhere between astounded and delighted. Bucky reaches out with his metal hand and shoves Clint’s face away, trying to focus on the silence on the other end of the line.

“I didn’t want you to get freaked out by someone else arriving-” 

“Wait, wait,” Bucky interrupts. “So you turn up here all spitting angry because no-one told you I was here and then you turn around and pull the same shit on me?” He’s suddenly furious, something he’s not felt in forever, and the ferocity of it takes him by surprise.

“Buck-”

“No, you’re being a goddamn hypocrite again,” Bucky snaps. “You don't get to be angry at these guys for a deciding what you can handle and then you sit there and decide what I can handle. So go fuck yourself.”

He hangs up and drops the phone.

“You did not,” Clint gasps, scrabbling on the floor for his phone, “just tell Captain America to fuck off.”

“He’s not Captain America anymore but yes he did,” Phil says, and he sounds a little impressed. “Wow, a little bit of a temper there Barnes.”

“Apparently,” Bucky mutters back, resting his forehead back against the window. “Whatever, I don’t care.”

He does care, quite a bit, but the others are sensible enough to not call him out on it and leave him to brood in peace.

 

* * *

 

When they get to the town, Bucky is relieved to see that it barely qualifies as one. It’s a perfect rectangle of civilization in the sea of fields, like someone drew out a box and said _‘okay, everyone for fifty square miles will live here.’_ There’s the choice of two food marts, one with a gas station out front; a church with missing shingles on the roof stands smack bang in the centre of the town; a library that faces a school looks like it's on the verge of closing down; finally there's a crossroads that houses a furniture store, a hardware store, a barbers and two bars. The only issue is that Bucky knows how small towns can be pretty tightly knit, and he is a stranger that could potentially draw attention. There’s nothing for it though, his desire for smokes is stronger than his paranoia, so he pulls his gloves on, pulls his cap low and takes the fifty bucks that Coulson gives him without letting his pride have any say on the matter. He’s got no time for it, too busy with silently freaking out at the strangers that are going about their business and the fact he’s back among them. He’s had plenty of practice at blending in over the past months, though he does feel a little antsy about the fact he’s walking with Clint who is wearing a tee in the world’s loudest shade of purple. Clint doesn’t seem to give a fuck though, so Bucky just sucks it up and walks with him, leaving Coulson to run his own errands.  

First stop: cigarettes. They duck into the convenience store and he hands over what feels like an extortionate amount of money, tearing the plastic wrap on the packet open with his teeth the moment they’re back out in the lot.

“You look feral,” Clint comments, squinting up at the endless blue of the sky. “Gonna rain.”

“Don’t care,” Bucky says, eyes darting around. He manages to free a cigarette and slips it into his mouth, fumbling for his newly purchased lighter. The first drag is like a punch to the head, a sensation so heady and strong that he has to sit down right there on the curb. Clint sits next to him, watching the occasional car trundle by.

“This is the biggest small town for hours,” he tells Bucky. “Man, growing up here is tough.”

“Try growing up in the depression,” Bucky says through a breath held in his chest, before he exhales in a rush of smoke. Clint snorts with laughter but Bucky doesn’t smile, too busy staring vacantly across the street at the barbers across the way. There’s a guy sat in the chair, head tipped forward, staggeringly vulnerable as the barber brings scissors to the nape of his neck.

Bucky shakes his head, irritated with himself. It’s a haircut, not an assassination, what is wrong with him? He takes another long drag on his cigarette and decides not to answer that question, even in the silence of his own head.

“I s’pose,” he finally says. “We should go help Coulson.”

“If you want,” Clint says, making no effort to get up. He hooks a finger into the neck of his tee, pulling it away from his body and grimacing at the sweat. “You still pissed at Steve?”

Bucky shrugs. “Don’t know.”

“You’re allowed to be,” Clint says simply and then heaves himself to his feet. “But you’re allowed to forgive him and let him get away with it if that’s what you want.”

Bucky squints up at him. “You think letting him get away with things is sensible?”

“Maybe not in some cases,” Clint says, passing his sunglasses down to Bucky. Bucky takes them, grateful. “But with you two...it’s different, right?”

Bucky freezes, fingers on the sunglasses. He swallows hard and makes himself move again, hiding his eyes behind the dark lenses. He’s got a few options here: _‘I don’t want to talk about it’,  ‘yeah let’s discuss my unrequited love for Steve Rogers right here on the sidewalk’_ , or _‘what the fuck are you talking about, Barton.’_

Option three it is.

“The fuck are you talking about, Barton?”

Clint kicks his toe against the curb. “My name’s Hawkeye, idiot. I’ve seen you staring at his ass. Which is a little insulting because you’ve never stared at mine.”

Bucky feels himself go cold all over. He’s hidden it for seventy years and now here it is, laid bare in not some glorious moment of passion and confession, but as he sits there on his ass in the heat and dust, perched on the crossroads of some nondescript Iowa town. “I don’t,” he bites out. “That’s fucked up.”

Clint sighs. “Okay, we’re bros now so don’t be a dick and lie to me,” he says. “And two, in this day and age it’s definitely not considered fucked up.”

He sounds a little annoyed. Bucky can’t really blame him. “It’s fucked up because it’s Steve,” he says. “He’s my best friend, I’ve got no right.”

“Okay, that’s fair,” Clint says, and nudges Bucky with his foot. “I’m sorry, bro. That sucks.”

Bucky takes one last drag of his cigarettes drops it to the floor and crushes it with his heel. “I know,” he says quietly, and holds out a hand for Clint to pull him up.

 

* * *

 

Bucky leaves town with two packs of cigarettes, some more shirts and a new pair of aviator sunglasses. During the war he’d been the proud owner a pair for all of two days before they’d been stolen by some punk from the airborne division they’d stumbled into. They’re comforting and achingly familiar. Clint says they make him look hot. Bucky tells him to shut up. 

Just as Clint predicted, the clouds roll in as they’re driving home, heavy and oppressive. Bucky feels the pressure in the air and thinks he might go crazy with it, but luckily the storm crests and breaks before he can either start screaming or cry. The rain hammers down onto the truck, plunking off of the bodywork and the tarp. Bucky just watches rivulets dance their way down the window, listening to the steady squeak and thump of the wipers.

His stomach aches but he ignores it. Just sits there and lets Coulson drive him back to the safehouse where he’ll be forced to meet Steve’s new best friend who he probably tried to kill at some point.  

A passenger in both the car and his own life. Again.

 

* * *

 

 

Sam’s there when they get back. 

There’s a nondescript black Prius parked next to Steve’s bike. Knowing he doesn’t have a choice, Bucky follows Clint and Coulson out of the car, jumping down into the puddles on the yard and dashing into the house. When they get inside there’s a handsome, gap-toothed man sat at the kitchen table, right at Steve’s side. Maria is also sitting at the table, clearly enjoying Sam’s company too.

Bucky wonders if he can get away with bolting back out of the door. 

Clint gives a shout of delight and goes over to hug Sam. Bucky is left standing there like an idiot, feeling oddly betrayed by Clint's happiness at seeing Sam. He doesn't have much time to spare worrying about it though, because Steve is on his feet and in front of him, looking like he's bracing for impact. 

“Buck,” he says, voice an undertone. “I'm sorry, I didn't think, I was just worried-"

And Bucky finds he doesn't need to hear it. He holds up a hand, flinching slightly as there's a shout of laughter from Sam, Clint and Maria. "Don't worry about it," he mumbles.

"That's the whole point, I do worry," Steve says. "You were real mad at me."

"Yeah, I earned that," Bucky says. "And I'm over it. Honestly." 

Steve nods, though the tension hasn't entirely faded. "Will you come and meet Sam?”

Bucky just stands there. It’s not his choice what happens to him, it never is.

“How about I come and meet Bucky,” a warm voice says evenly. Behind his sunglasses, Bucky watches as Sam claps Clint on the shoulder and then steps away, towards Steve and Bucky. “Hey, man,” Sam says, holding out a hand. “No hard feelings about me trying to knock your ass out in DC? In my defense, I wasn’t entirely sure how brainwashed you were and you know, a guy’s gotta protect himself.” 

Bucky goes very still. Of all the things he was expecting, an apology wasn’t even on the shortlist.

“If I find out you tried to hurt Bucky I will hurt you,” Maria says from her chair. “He’s my favorite.”

Sam drops Bucky’s hand, turns to face Maria while gesturing at Bucky. “He tried to shoot me!”

“Favorite,” Maria says sternly, pointing a finger at Sam.

“It’s true,” Clint chips in, rummaging through the fridge. “She’ll cut a bitch to defend Bucky.”

“I think the guy can handle himself,” Sam says.

“The guy has had a rough time and until he’s back on his feet, I will, in fact, cut a bitch for him,” Maria says matter of factly, getting up to lean past Clint, pulling a beer out of the fridge. “What’s for dinner, Nick?”

There’s a responding shout from the depths of the tech-centre. Sam’s eyes are fixed on Bucky, waiting patiently.

“I’m sorry about DC,” Bucky says. His eyes flick to Steve, who is standing there and looking so hopeful that it hurts. Bucky mentally sighs. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Sam nods at him, Clint shoots him a thumbs up and Steve’s smile is like the dawn over a calm sea.

 

* * *

 

He lasts another twenty-one minutes. Everyone stays in the kitchen and it’s rowdy and busy but with just one extra body in the room it seems like too many. The conversations roll through topics that Bucky has no idea about, and Sam is charming and polite and great and Bucky can easily see why he and Steve are such good friends. it’s _infuriating._ He’s out of his depth and rapidly drowning. 

He makes his excuses and slips up to the attic, sitting on the cabinet next to the eye-window. He shoves it open so he can smoke out of it, listening to the rain on the roof.

It’s a couple of hours later when he hears footsteps on the stairs. They creak and groan with the weight and then a sandy blond head appears. “Don’t shoot,” Clint calls, hauling himself up the rest of the way. He’s grinning a little too widely, wobbling a little as he grips hold of the bannister.

“Are you drunk?”

Clint seesaws his hand, walking over to Bucky and stealing the cigarette from his hand, taking a drag before passing it back. “We had a few. We’re having a night off before we talk shop and make a plan tomorrow.”

“Sure,” Bucky says dully. “Plan more dumb escapades for Steve to get his ass hurt in.”

“Hey,” Clint pinches his leg, frowns at him. “Plan to rescue Wanda.”

Bucky presses his lips together, feeling like a complete tool.

“And besides,” Clint says. “You can come with us, then you can make sure Steve’s ass is safe.”

Bucky’s stomach swoops hollow at that. Clint expects him to suit up and join in? Is he crazy? Bucky feels his jaw clench, his resolve stiffening. He doesn't do that anymore. No more missions, no more fighting. He's done.

More creaking on the stairs and a second blond head appears. “Can I come in?” Steve asks, paused in place with his head and shoulders just visible.

“No,” Clint says. “We're bonding and talking shit about you.”

Steve's mouth quirks. “Well then I'll leave you to it,” he says and the idiot touches two fingers to his temple, saluting them as he turns to leave.

“Steve, no,” Bucky calls out. “Don't go, it's time to talk shit about Clint and I can't do that if he's here.”

They both laugh and thankfully both get the hint. Steve and Clint swap places, Steve rolling his eyes in exasperation as Clint stumbles down the stairs. There's a thump and a bang, and then Clint's voice shouting, “I'm okay!” drifts back up.

They both laugh, and then to Bucky's utter shock, Steve twists around to lie along the cabinet on his back. He shoves at Bucky until he has his thigh suitably positioned in order for him to use it as a pillow.

“Jesus you're like solid muscle,” Steve says, shifting to get comfy.

“Oh I'm sorry, I'll do my best to get fat and squishy so I'm a better pillow.”

“Yeah if you could that'd be great,” Steve says and then laughs as Bucky pinches at his pec. “Ow, ow, I'm kidding.”

Steve huffs out a breath, eyes sliding shut. He rests his hands on his belly, one knee bent up and his foot tapping gently against the edge of the cabinet. **“** Missed you today,” he says quietly.

Bucky's throat goes tight. “You had Sam to keep you company.”

Steve's eyes open, searching Bucky's face. He frowns at whatever he finds there. “Sam's not you,” he says. “Jeez, Buck, you think I can just swap you out like that? You're my best friend and we've been through everything together. Whatever Sam is, he's not going to replace you.”

Bucky can only nod. It's heartbreaking, having Steve say these things that he's not sure he trusts, having Steve so close but being unable to touch him how he wants.

“He's my friend too but that doesn't take away anything. I'm real glad you're back, Buck.”

But is he? Bucky can't help the gnawing doubt because he's not yet that person that Steve knew, isn't the same man that Steve lost. He's trying, lord knows he's trying - he only has to think of all the pieces of the Winter Soldier that he's already shed since breaking his conditioning. The clothes, buried in a field south of DC. The weapons, thrown into a river. The knife left under the floorboards in Romania. The last time he spoke Russian. The habits, the violence.

God, what he wouldn't give to just rewind, to go back and not get on that train, to never have to sit here like this. He wants his old self back with such intensity it feels like he's mourning, dying with it.

“Buck?”

“I’m trying,” Bucky says. “I’m trying real hard, Steve. To be that person I used to be.”

Steve’s eyes are too bright, too intense. “I know,” he says quietly. For a moment it looks like he’s going to say more but he doesn’t. He shoves his hands in his pockets, twists the toe of his sneaker against the floorboard. “Will you come back down?”

Another simple question that feels like a trap. Would old him say yes? Would he agree to be there and bite down on his jealousy? He thinks he remembers a night in a bar, staring at Steve while Steve stares at Peggy Carter, feeling obnoxious and belligerent and wondering why the hell he hadn't walked away yet.

Old him was clearly a masochist. Putting himself in situations that he knew would hurt, like pressing your tongue against an aching tooth.

He can’t do it. Not this time.

He shakes his head and Steve just nods in understanding. He sits up and hesitates for a moment, before leaning in and gently knocking his forehead against Bucky’s temple. Bucky’s eyes go too warm and he feels tears welling up again. He could just turn his head and Steve would be close enough to kiss, he thinks dizzily. Too close, not close enough.

“How bout me and you camp up here tonight?” Steve murmurs. “Sam can take the couch and we’ll keep out the way.”

Bucky nods. A tear wells over and runs down his cheek. He ducks his head away but Steve has already noticed. He reaches up and gently brushes his knuckles over Bucky’s cheekbone. “I’ll bring you some food. You get us a couple of pillows.”

He bumps his knuckles against Bucky’s jaw then slides from the cabinet, heading swiftly down the stairs. The moment he’s gone Bucky feels his chin tremble, his whole being crumpling under the tide of grief and guilt and regret. He chokes on a sob, pressing his hand to his mouth to try and stop himself from breaking down completely.

Just breathe, he tells himself, exhaling harshly through his mouth. Just breathe.

He hangs there in the balance, spends a terrifying moment on the precipice before he manages to wrest himself back under control. He clenches his eyes tightly shut, fisting his hand in his hair and tugging lightly. The sensation is just enough to ground him, to bring him back to himself.

 _You’ve been given a mission,_ he tells himself, before fiercely rewriting the thought in his own head. _Steve’s asked you to do something._

He climbs unsteadily to his feet. He retrieves two pillows from the linen closet at the top of the stairs. Goes back to the loft and clears some space on the floor. Sits and waits.

Steve is true to his word and returns with food and two bottles of water. He doesn’t say anything, just sits down next to Bucky as he eats. When Bucky’s done he takes away the plates and Bucky has another horrid moment of helplessness, the same sensation of not being in control of anything. This time, it gnaws at him, making him feel itchy and restless and like he could scream. 

Steve reappears and before he can say anything, Bucky makes himself speak.

“Back to back,” he says, hurriedly gesturing to the pillows left in the space he’s cleared. “Feet towards the stairs, like we did before. In Azzano.”

Steve presses his lips together hard, like he’s fighting some sort of emotional battle all of his own. “Yeah,” he says, finally. His voice is steady even as his mouth wavers in a tentative smile “Sounds good.”

He walks over, drops to the floor and rolls onto his side, pulling a pillow beneath his head. Bucky takes a fraction longer to get himself moving, slowly lowering himself onto the floorboards and rolling over so his spine bumps against Steve’s. Steve exhales heavily, shifting so they’re pressed together properly, all the way from their shoulders down to their hips.

“G'night, Buck,” he murmurs.

“Night,” Bucky whispers back. He breathes out and the anxious gnawing part of him abates, leaving behind the relief and gratitude that Steve is there.

It’s probably too warm to be pressed up against anyone like that but he doesn’t care. He just closes his eyes, listens to the sound of Steve breathing behind him, and falls willingly into sleep.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Clint's wake-up music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=It7107ELQvY), and [Coulson's wake-up music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fwSNMibfaRg)


	7. Chapter 7

Bucky wakes when Steve does; he senses the shift in Steve’s breathing and the way he wriggles to get comfortable - if that’s even possible when they’re sleeping on the floor. Either way, he feels Steve slowly surface into wakefulness and follows too, just like he always follows. 

The sun is shining through the window, a warm stripe of light pouring right across his face and it’s too hot with Steve still pressed up against his back. He doesn’t move though, because here in this moment it’s calm and peaceful and he’s got Steve right there, safe and close.

“Buck?”

Oh goddamn it, Steve.

“Buck?” Steve whispers again. “You awake?”

“No,” Bucky mumbles. Steve huffs out a laugh and rolls over, knees knocking against the back of Bucky’s thighs. He rests his head on Bucky’s back, forehead pressing against his spine. 

“I need to pee,” Steve yawns.

“I’m not stopping you?” Bucky says, his confusion making the statement sound more like a question.

“Yeah y’are,” Steve says. “I like it here.”

Funny how four small words can simultaneously break and heal Bucky’s heart. He doesn’t say anything, chewing on the inside of his lip. He can’t hear any noise from the rest of the house yet; they must be the only ones awake.   

“Fine,” Steve sighs, like Bucky’s forcing him to do something he really doesn’t want. “I’ll go.”

“Either that or you’ll piss yourself,” Bucky says. He rolls onto his back and groans; his back apparently doesn’t like the combination of the hardwood floor and the weight of his metal arm. He’s getting soft.

“Remember when we spent three nights in those tents on that pass in the Alps?” Steve says. “And Dernier refused to go out to pee so he’d just-”

“Stick his junk out of the tent flap, yeah,” Bucky says, starting to laugh. He kicks at Steve. “Go. And bring coffee back.”

“Yes Sergeant,” Steve says, heaving himself to his feet. The back of his shirt is dark with sweat and Bucky forces himself to keep his face impassive, his reactions locked down as Steve peels the shirt off over his head, tossing it over his shoulder and heading for the stairs without a backwards glance. He treads so light that the floorboards barely creak, which should be impossible seeing as he’s over two hundred pounds of freaking muscle.

Bucky lifts his arm, throwing it across his eyes like somehow if he blocks out the light he can block out the mental image of stupid shirtless Steve. It’s not even his overwhelming crush on Steve that's the worst of it, it’s that Steve clearly has absolutely no idea about the effect he has on Bucky.

By the time Steve returns - with coffee, thank god - Bucky is awake and upright, leaning against the wall and smoking. His own shirt is discarded on the floor and he’s only not wearing it because he’s hot, not at all because he wants to see if Steve reacts.

Steve gets up the last stair and falters, just enough for Bucky to notice. It’s the faintest widening of his eyes, a step that’s not quite as sure as the rest. Bucky feels a soaring rush of giddiness and for a moment he thinks  _ ‘oh my god yes he feels the same’ _ and then Steve’s eyes slide down and left.

Oh.

“Sorry,” Steve says, looking a little guilty and offering up a small, apologetic smile. His eyes dart to Bucky’s shoulder again and Bucky reaches up with his right hand, unconsciously covering up the line where skin meets metal.

“No, don’t,” Steve says. “I just - I’ve not seen it before. Where it-”

He trails off, but turns to set the coffee mugs down and then reaches up up gently move Bucky’s hand aside. Bucky doesn’t resist, just fixes his eyes on the wall over Steve’s shoulder and lifts his cigarette to his mouth to hide his discomfort and his disappointment.

“Does it hurt?”

Bucky shakes his head, swallowing around the lump in his throat. He turns away and flicks the cigarette butt out of the window.

“Oh come on, don’t be like that,” Steve says. “Buck, come on.”

“No, I’ll be how I like,” Bucky snaps, turning and shouldering past Steve to pick up his coffee. “I’m tryna be me again and you stand there goggling at my fucking metal arm.”

There’s a long silence.

“I know what you’re trying,” Steve says quietly. “But that arm ain’t going away.”

“Why don’t you go away,” Bucky snaps back. 

This time, the silence is far too loud. Bucky regrets it the moment he’s said it. Of course he doesn’t want Steve to go away, that’s crazy talk, but he’s all wound up from his little experiment going wrong and Steve staring at his arm and-

“You don’t mean that, so no. I won’t.”

And thank god Steve is stubborn as fuck. A wavering laugh escapes Bucky’s mouth, and he reaches up to push his hair back away from his face. “No, I don’t,” he admits. “Sorry.”

Steve nods, accepting the apology. He watches Bucky for a moment, scrutinising, assessing. Whatever he finds or doesn’t find, he sighs. “C’mere,” he says, reaching for Bucky and pulling him into a hug. Bucky almost drops his coffee, such is his shock at finding himself pressed up against Steve’s stupid shirtless body.

“It’s too warm for this!” he protests, but Steve just laughs.

“Never,” he says, but he does let Bucky go. “We’ve got like, seventy years of hugs to catch up on.”

“That’s a long time to have to catch up,” Bucky points out. “We’d never let each other go.”

“Told you,” Steve shrugs, smile turning mischievous. “End of the line, pal.”

“That does not physically mean holding onto me until we die, Steve.”

Steve shrugs again. “Least I'd know you were safe,” he says. “Come on, let’s go get pre-breakfast.”

“Pre breakfast?”

Steve nods, seriously. “We've got super-soldier metabolisms. Two breakfasts is completely justified.”

“I’d like to see you get that past Coulson,” Bucky says, already following Steve across the floorboards and towards the stairs.

“For once in my life I’m not actually looking for trouble,” Steve calls back, snorting with laughter as Bucky gives him a shove.

“I’ll believe that never,” he says. “Now go, I want bacon.”

 

* * *

They manage to get pre-breakfast eaten and tidied up after just before Coulson appears. He narrows his eyes at the spotless table and the clear sink and Steve’s I-pod which is already in the dock, playing inoffensive pop music. Some girl singing about never going out of style, which Bucky things is actually pretty appropriate seeing as he’s sporting style from the forties.

“If you’ve eaten all the food, we will fall out.” 

“I would never,” Steve says, sipping his coffee and looking like butter wouldn’t melt. “Would I, Buck?”

Bucky leans back in the doorway, where he’s been standing on the deck smoking. “No, never.”

“You two are both a great and terrible combination,” Coulson observes. Bucky privately agrees. “What have you left for us lesser mortals, then?”

Bucky finishes his cigarette as Coulson starts on breakfast. He slinks back in and amuses Steve by stealing bites of mushroom when Coulson isn’t looking. It all feels a bit odd really; Steve might be Captain America - well, ex-Captain America - and usually in charge but here in the safehouse, Bucky outranks him purely because he’s been here longer. It’s an oddly comforting thought. It becomes less comforting when the rest of the crew appear in short order. The usual routine of the morning is completely thrown off by Sam, and Bucky tries not to feel resentful as the shower queue is renegotiated, as Steve’s pop music gives way to something new and different. He just sits on the counter next to the window, Clint standing right next to his knees like some sort of coffee-chugging human shield.

Everything’s light and chatty and casual - well, except for Bucky’s nerves - until Steve puts his mug down and says “alright then.”

Everyone comes to heel without so much as a grumble. The music is turned off. Maria sits down. Sam leans forwards, elbows on the table and expression intent. Fury sits down next to Steve and Phil stands next to Clint.

Bucky thinks that maybe his idea of outranking Steve is already outdated.

“So,” Steve says. “Down to business. And I have to start by saying that even us talking about getting down to business is probably illegal.”

Clint lifts his mug in a toast. “At least it’s not a sex thing.”

“I’m serious,” Steve says, even as Maria hides a grin behind her palm. “Maria, come on.”

“I’m sorry,” she says. “But after SHIELD got ruined and now the Accords...If I don’t laugh, I might cry.”

“I get that,” Steve says, remarkably patiently. “Things keep going south for us, but we’ve got a job to do.”

“An illegal job,” Sam says, drumming his fingers on the table. “You know, when I signed up to be Captain America’s sidekick, I didn’t expect to be working on the wrong side of the law.”

Bucky barely stops his mouth falling open in affront as Sam says the word sidekick. Clint must notice because he discreetly elbows Bucky’s thigh and Bucky shoves back at him with his knee.

“Well, we are,” Steve says. “Well, at the moment we’re civilians and are not allowed to partake in any actions wherein our powers, enhancements or tech are put forth to aid, attend or comfort any person or persons, whether that be a member of the public, armed forces or any registered heroes.”

“Hold up,” Sam says, turning a disbelieving stare on Steve. “You memorised the Accords?”

“Parts of them, even I’d have trouble with nine hundred pages,” Steve says. “My point is, the moment we take a step to help anyone, we’re in breach of the law. We can’t even get a cat down out of a tree without being arrested.”

“How come Tony isn’t in breach of the law for holding Wanda hostage?” Clint butts in, already sounding angry.

“Because he signed the Accords and she did not,” Fury says heavily. “Legally, he is in the right.”

“Morally, he’s on shakier ground,” Phil says. “But morals aren't going to keep us out of jail.”

“No, a well planned mission and night-vision goggles are going to keep us out of jail,” Steve says matter of factly. “But I am not going to make anyone join in if they don’t want to take the risk.”

Bucky feels his insides go cold. He feels sick. He’s sitting here with Steve’s team like he’s going to be part of it - hell, even Clint has been talking about them going to fetch Wanda, with Bucky as part of the collective  _ them. _

“Okay,” Steve is saying. “So, we know they’re at the compound. Sam, have you got the map- yeah.”

People are moving, a map is being spread out on the table. Clint is leaning forwards over the back of Maria’s chair. Steve is uncapping a pen and drawing circles on the map, like it’s 1944 and they’re planning an incursion into German lines, like the table is the hood of a jeep and the team are the Howling Commandos.

“...with the jet that Clint has…”

Oh god, they’re actually doing this. Clint is volunteering to pilot and Maria says she can keep them off frequency. Steve is nodding seriously and listening to Sam reel off the list of equipment he managed to get before he left the compound. Bucky tries to imagine his part in this, thinks of a rifle in his hand, a target in the scope, a body crumpling under the pressure of his left fist.

“...the patio has automatic lighting, unless we disable it or come in along the wall…”

Bucky thinks of all the times he’s followed Steve. All the danger they’ve found themselves in. He should be able to follow him again, he needs to follow Steve again-

“...if Buck has my six...”

His name intrudes on his desperate thoughts like Steve has struck him. He jerks back into reality, realises that Steve is planning on taking Bucky with him on this stupid mission that’s going to get people killed. Not Steve’s people - Bucky trusts Steve to do his damnest to keep his people safe. But what about the people that encounter Bucky, creeping up on them in the dead of the night?

What if he agrees to the mission as Bucky but walks into it as the Winter Soldier? What happens then?

He plants his hands on the edge of the counter and slides off of it, hitting the floorboards with a hefty thud. He walks away, shoving past Clint and not even caring about it. He’s most of the way to the back door before Steve calls out to him.

“Buck, you okay?”

“I’m not coming,” says Bucky, not turning to look at any of them. “I’m not coming and it’s not because of any damn risk to  _ me _ . It’s because I’m fucking dangerous and you seem to think bringing me along is a sensible idea.”

“Buck-”

“I’m not discussing it,” Bucky snaps. “I am  _ not _ that guy anymore.”

He makes sure to punctuate his point by slamming the door after him, hard enough to make the frame rattle.

 

* * *

He doesn’t go far. Just to the end of the garden. He sits down in the grass with his back to the house, furiously chain-smoking cigarettes. He finishes his second pack and screws up the cardboard, throwing it into the grass.

He’s not getting involved. He doesn’t do that anymore, and not even Steve Rogers can make him.

Unfortunately, Steve Rogers thinks he can and is going to do his damnest to make it happen. Bucky hears him coming, swishing indignantly through the grass to stand next to him. His arms are folded and Bucky doesn't want to look up to see what the expression on his face is. It could be anywhere from pissed off to upset to unbearably patient. 

“You’re not coming?”

“What, you deaf?” Bucky says. “No, I’m not coming.”

Steve doesn’t move. “I thought...you were trying to find yourself again.”

Bucky takes a long drag on his cigarette, itches his eyebrow with his thumb. “Yeah, me before all the murder and violence.”

“Far as I remember you had a thing for sniper rifles and fighting before you ever ended up under Hydra’s thumb.”

Bucky’s on his feet before he knows it. He reaches out with his metal hand and grabs the hold of Steve’s shirt, yanking him forward. Steve instinctively grabs hold of his wrist, stumbling slightly but meeting Bucky’s gaze head on without blinking, without so much as wince.

“What you saying, that I’ve been a murderer all my life so why stop now?”

“No, that’s not what I’m saying,” Steve says. His voice is steady but but swallows hard. “I’m saying I don’t want to do this without you.”

Bucky clenches his jaw. “I’m,” he says, and his voice cracks. “I’m not gonna be able to do that,” he says. “I - I can’t risk it. I’m too dangerous. I can’t.”

Steve lets go of Bucky’s wrist. Just stands there, hands at his side, vulnerable. “Alright,” he says. “Alright, that’s your choice."

It sounds very final. Bucky loosens his grip on Steve’s shirt so it’s less violent, more just holding on to the fabric. Oddly, he feels like he’s just finished a mission, strangely calm. Possibly like he’s in control for the first time in weeks. ”Yeah,” he agrees, looking down at his fingers and taking a moment before looking back up to meet Steve’s eyes. “It’s my choice.”

“Like it’s my choice to go,” Steve says. “I can’t sit here while Wanda is in trouble.”

Bucky sighs, presses his palm to Steve’s chest. “I know,” he says. “I wouldn’t expect anything less from you.”

“Please don’t go anywhere,” Steve says quietly. “While I’m gone. I don’t think I could handle getting back and you being gone again.”

“I won’t,” Bucky says quietly, and the way he says it sounds like a promise.

* * *

 

 

Clint comes out hours later. He doesn’t say anything, just lies down in the grass next to Bucky so their shoulders are touching. He passes over Bucky’s sunglasses and he takes them with a grunt of thanks. Clint nods back and wriggles to get comfy, yawning and rubbing a hand over his stomach.

“Steve’s still going.”

“I know.”

“And you don’t want to go.”

“No.”

“Because you’re done fighting.”

“Yes.”

Clint turns his head to squint at Bucky, lifting a hand to brush a bug away from his face. “You know it’s technically a rescue mission.”

“The point is, its a mission,” Bucky says, frustrated with both Clint’s pushing and his inability to articulate it properly. “And if I go and get into that headspace, it won’t stay as a rescue mission. It’ll - it’ll-” 

“Okay, I get it,” Clint says. “That not being in control feeling is not fun.”

If Bucky weren’t already lying down, he thinks he might have fallen down with relief. “Yeah,” he says to Clint. “Yeah, that’s it. And as well, if I’m trying to find the old me, I can’t afford to slide into Winter Soldier headspace.”

“We get it,” Clint says simply. “What’re you gonna do while we’re gone?”

Bucky shrugs but then takes a moment to think about it. “Clear out the loft,” he says. “If you’re bringing another person back here we need more space.”

“Good call,” Clint says. “You can throw away, recycle, sell or burn anything that’s up there. We’ll need to go get an extra bed or two too. And possibly another couch, and some dining chairs.”

“What, you expecting me to do all that?”

“No, Coulson and Fury are both staying, so Fury can man the comms and you and Phil can keep out of it.”

It sounds suspiciously like Bucky is being babysat, but he doesn’t have the wherewithal to argue. “Alright,” he says heavily. “When are you going?”

Clint pulls at the grass with his fingers. “Tonight,” he says quietly. “Sixteen hundred hours lift-off.”

Bucky can only stare at him in horror. “Tonight?” he echoes. “No, that is not enough prep time, absolutely not. Even if it’s just a rescue mission, what is he thinking-”

He clambers to his feet, intent on going and yelling at Steve some more, but freezes when Clint sits up and grabs hold of his metal wrist to stop him. He manages to refrain from bodily yanking Clint across the ground, but barely. 

“This sounds like you’re about to go yell at Steve, which is he going to interpret as you being interested in the mission,” Clint says.

“Oh, fuck the mission,” Bucky snaps. “I’m going to find Coulson, I need more cigarettes and to get away from this entire shit-show.”

Clint lets him go and Bucky storms off without another word.

* * *

 

 

He doesn’t tell Steve he’s going out. He deliberately avoids him which is pretty easy to do seeing as Steve is busy having important Captain-type conversations with Maria and Sam. 

Twenty minutes later and he and Coulson are in the pick-up on the way back to the town. Bucky takes his tablet and uses the aux cable to play his music through the stereo but it doesn’t make him feel any better. He hears it, but he doesn’t feel anything as it plays, like the old tunes and instruments are pouring their hearts out into a void.

* * *

 

 

This time, they pick up an entire carton of cigarettes. They also buy two new bed frames and mattresses, even though Bucky says he doesn’t need the frame, he’ll be fine with just a mattress. He skulks near the door as Coulson makes the purchase, listening to Coulson’s easy breezy boring lies about his extended family all coming to stay in his deceased Pa’s old place until they sort out the will and estates. The cashier’s eyes literally glaze over as Coulson chats, which is pretty good for staying inconspicuous.

Bucky helps secure their haul into the back of the truck and as he steps back, his eyes catch on something across the street, a shop he’d noticed on their last visit to the town. He grinds to a halt, gaze fixed as an idea slowly forms in his mind.

“You okay?” Coulson steps up beside him, keys in hand.

“Yeah,” Bucky says slowly, eyes still glued to the glass window of the barbers shop. “There’s just something I want to do.”  

 

* * *

 

The bell rings jauntily as Coulson steps back out onto the sun-baked sidewalk. Bucky turns to face him, chewing his lip.

“Explained you’re a vet just back off a tour and you’re jumpy,” Coulson says. “He’s cool with it. I’ll stay as backup, if you want to go through with it.”

Bucky nods quickly. He does. This is another thing from the Winter Soldier that he can leave behind, all it takes is him sitting in a chair with a total stranger wielding scissors way too close to his neck.

“Alright, let’s do it,” Coulson says. “I swear, I’ll drop him if he does anything even remotely dangerous. There’s a taser in my bag.”

“Course there is,” Bucky says, and heaves out a breath. “I’m a veteran?”

“I told him you don’t like talking about it,” Coulson says, which is smart. No need for a cover story. “And,” Coulson continues. “It’s actually true.”

“What?” Bucky says, caught off guard. “I’m not-”

Coulson just almost smiles. “Think about it. You most definitely are.”

That’s not a school of thought that Bucky is remotely comfortable with. He decides to let it go and covers his unease by taking a deep breath and shouldering into the shop, Coulson right behind him.

* * *

 

He sits in the chair, both hands clinging to the arms like he’ll die if he lets go. Well, maybe it’s the fragile mortality of the barber that he’s more worried about; if Bucky snaps and his hands are free, there’s no telling what will happen.

The shop is empty, save for them. The guy is short and does not look threatening. The radio plays in the background, pop music that Steve would probably like.

The guy introduces himself. Mark. Starts by asking Bucky for a safeword, so he has an option for a break if he needs it. Makes a quiet joke about it not being sexual, he promises. Coulson almost smiles at that. Bucky unsticks his throat and mumbles ‘Brooklyn.’ When Coulson apparently deems that Bucky isn’t going to go all Winter Soldier on the guy, he moves and takes up position by the window, standing in Bucky’s eye line, leaning back against the glass like he’s on security detail. Which, Bucky supposes, he kind of is.

Mark starts with a hairbrush. Bucky stares in the mirror, watching every tiny movement. He shivers as the brush pulls through his hair, and he can’t help but think about Steve doing this for him. Then he’s promptly torn between missing Steve so much it feels like stomach ache, and wanting to go and punch Steve for the whole mission thing.

_ Sam is on his six now, _ a nasty voice in his head says.  _ You are no longer mission critical. Obsolete.  _

He tries to ignore it. He can’t be worrying about that right now, not when Mark is telling him that he’s going to pick up his scissors. 

Bucky holds his breath. The scissors come close. Coulson shifts from one foot to another.

A soft snip, and a chunk of brown hair falls to the floor. Bucky keeps his eyes glued to the scissors. He feels his stomach twisting and his hands going clammy. All at once, holding onto the arms of the chair feels too familiar, so he lets go and links his fingers together, hands held in his lap. Better. He concentrates on breathing in and out, focusses not on the chair and the snip snip of the scissors but the new song that's just started up in the background. He’s no idea what it is, but his brain hangs up on it like he’s a fish on a hook. 

“Okay, pal?” Mark asks.

Bucky nods, mind fixated on the sounds he can hear. Drums in a lazy beat. The deep thrum of bass. Low, soft vocals from a voice that sounds equal parts nervous and determined. Words about guns and murderers and friends being heathens. It sounds like the guy singing is in  _ pain _ , that he knows things that other people don’t know. It’s like he’s gone into Bucky’s brain and pulled out all of his thoughts about being dangerous and being alone, set them to instruments and is broadcasting it for everyone to hear. 

Sitting there in his chair, Bucky is equal parts shocked and horrified and is in utter disbelief. 

The song fades and is replaced by another pop song, one which sounds suspiciously like the girl who was singing about style when they were having breakfast. Bucky doesn’t care - he’s still staring at the scissors moving but he’s thinking about the song. It’s like nothing he’s ever heard before, nothing that he would ever listen to back in the day, nothing that he should be listening to-

He’s starting to panic. He twitches and tears his eyes away from the mirror, instead looking to Coulson.

“You got this,” Coulson says simply. “You’re fine.”

Bucky exhales and looks back at the mirror, thinking that even though he doesn’t exactly feel fine, he trusts Coulson to have his back.  

 

* * *

When Mark is done, Bucky feels like he could burst into tears. The long hair is gone and he looks like he could have stepped straight out of Coulson’s essay about the Howling Commandos. 

Steve is going to-

Fuck. Bucky doesn’t even know.

He climbs out of the chair in a daze, still staring at his reflection. Reaches up with his real hand to brush fingertips over the closely cropped hairs over his ear. 

“Yes, you’re very handsome,” Coulson says, sounding amused. “Stop staring at yourself.”

Mark laughs. Bucky tears his eyes away and tries to say thank you. Mark waves him off, saying he’s proud to be able to help someone who served their country. Possible sensing Bucky’s near-hysterical reaction to that, Coulson pays the man, then swiftly hustles him out of the shop and back to the truck.

 

* * *

Coulson only speaks once on the whole journey home, asks if Bucky feels more like himself now he’s had his hair cut.

Bucky doesn’t answer. Sure, he looks more like himself, but he’s not sure how that feels and he doesn’t want to talk about it. 

* * *

 

 

The house is quiet and near empty when they get back. Steve’s motorbike is gone, and the barn is empty. It makes Bucky feel hollow, like he’s missing something.

Fury eyes him critically when he walks through the door and he represses a shudder. He repeats his  _ Not Pierce _ mantra in the silence of his own head but it’s like some sort of sense memory, the lingering fear that he’s about to be punished for breaching protocol. Cutting his own hair or getting it cut without permission would be a severe infraction. The Winter Soldier does not have any preference regarding personal appearance. The Winter Soldier will do his missions regardless of what he looks like.

After that thought surfaces, he feels so angry that he has to run up to the loft and away from Fury. He’s meant to be moving away from the goddamn Winter Soldier, not thinking about it more. 

He starts clearing the loft. Pulls the dust sheets down from the furniture and folds them carefully, setting them to one side. There’s around three or four wardrobes that he thinks will be able to be emptied and reallocated to the bedrooms. The cabinet against the far wall can go into the tech centre so that maybe they can have the dining table back. And bingo - there’s a wing-back armchair that probably needs cleaning, but Bucky is putting his name on that. As well as the functional furniture, there’s three broken chairs, a busted bedside cabinet and a scratched up coffee table. Bucky spends several loud minutes snapping wooden legs, doors and frames, stacking the pieces up over by the stairs.

It’s ridiculously enjoyable to unleash a little violence on the furniture, but he does his damnest to ignore the feeling. He’s doing a job, not enjoying the feeling of things cracking and snapping beneath his hands. 

Aside from the furniture, the loft is full of other odds and ends: stacked picture frames, sacks of clothes, old bits of ancient computer and taped up boxes that he’s got to deal with before he can have any hope of moving the wardrobes. He debates what he’s doing to do with it all for a moment, before giving in and going downstairs to ask Phil. He sneaks into the kitchen and takes a can of cola and a bag of chips before he does, draining half the can in several easy swallows before doubling back to snag a second, shoving it into the pocket of his sweats.

Fury and Phil are in the lounge, talking in quiet voices when Bucky edges in. 

“You’ve got dust in that mighty fine new hairdo of yours,” Fury says.

“It’s not new,” Bucky replies. “Kind of the point.”

“Oh yes,” Fury says slowly. “The reclamation of James Buchanan Barnes.”

“You okay, Buck?” Coulson chips in before Bucky has to respond to that. “Hungry?”

“Always,” Bucky reponds, deciding to focus on Coulson.  “And I’ve started on the loft. What do you want me to do with the trash? At the moment it’s small pieces of wood, clothes, some old computer parts.”

“What did Clint say?”

“That I could sell it, burn it or do whatever I liked with it.”

Coulson laughs. “Well let's not burn it and attract attention with a bonfire,” he muses. “Some I can take into town and recycle. Or I can make creative use of some industrial trash bins. Bag it up and leave it inside the shed, I’ll deal with it.”

“Thanks,” Bucky says, and makes to retreat. He ducks his head then belatedly remembers he’s not got his curtain of hair to hide behind any more.

“Oh no you don’t,” Coulson says. “Chores, then dinner. You’ve done quite enough brooding.”

“I am not brooding,” Bucky scowls, and then winces at how petulant and childish he sounds. “Whatever. I’ll move the trash and then I’ll come help.”

 

* * *

He takes the bags of trash down out to the shed. On his way back in, he finds himself halting by the barn, standing by the open door and staring into the empty space where the jet used to be. He swallows hard, resting his temple against the wood. Is this what it felt like for Steve, when Bucky upped and shipped out with the 107th? Feeling useless and broken and like he’s been tossed on the garbage. Christ, he might as well have a 4F stamped on him for everyone to see.

He slinks back into the house, goes for a shower because it’s a legitimate reason to avoid the others. Drags it out for as long as possible, carefully brushing his newly-sheared hair and pulling on a clean shirt and his slacks. Faces himself in the mirror and wonders why he doesn’t feel anything, even as his brain drags up a ragged memory of looking into a mirror, straightening an olive green tie and brushing his fingers over the embossed rifles on the brass pin attached to his collar.

_No,_ he thinks. _No Winter Soldier, no hundred and seventh, no fucking rifles._

The table seems way too big without all the others sat around it. Bucky inhales two pizzas and is midway through his third when Coulson gets up to fiddle with the stereo. Bucky watches him do it, remembering the song he’d heard while sat in the barber’s chair. He can remember around half the lyrics and the beat has been stuck in his head all day, like an itch he can’t scratch.

He flinches as Fury gets up from the table, resisting the urge to fling himself underneath it. If Fury notices his twitchiness he doesn't comment, just vanishes for a moment before returning with a bottle in hand.

“I think it’s time to break out the good stuff,” he says, setting in front of Bucky. “You look like you could do with a drink.”

Bucky stares at the bottle. Whiskey. The clear glass is embossed with the words  _ Bulleit Bourbon _ , not a brand he recognises. “You want me to let my guard down?”

“No,” Fury says, sitting back down in his chair as Coulson sets three tumblers on the table. “I want you to relax and at least try to stop worrying about Rogers.”

Bucky snorts. “I’ve been worrying about him since nineteen eighteen, why would I stop now.”

Fury concedes the point with a twitch of his lips. “Well then let’s drink to your poor shredded nerves,” he says, reaching to crack open the bottle and pour three healthy measures. “To Bucky’s ability to put up with Steve Rogers.”

Bucky takes a glass, lifts it in agreement and downs the whiskey in one.

“Can you even get drunk?” Coulson asks, leaning forward to claim his own glass. “Steve can’t.”

“I know Steve can’t,” Bucky says, holding out his glass for a refill. “I don’t know if I can.”

“Well,” Fury says, topping up Bucky’s glass. “Let’s find out.”

Bucky hesitates, wondering if this really is the smartest idea he’s ever had. He doesn’t quite trust Fury and he trusts himself even less, but he’s had a long day with Steve going off to war and the scissors and that song which just won’t quit.

Fuck it.

He downs his second drink, wincing slightly at the taste. “Let’s find out,” he echoes, heart thudding quickly as he holds out his glass for another.

  
  


* * *

A couple of hours later, and they have found that a) Nick Fury swears a lot when he’s drinking, b) after three whiskeys, Coulson develops a habit of effortlessly losing the thread of a sentence and then seamlessly swapping back to it three conversations later, and c) Bucky Barnes can get very drunk indeed. 

He feels warm and wobbly on his feet. Memories keep surfacing at random intervals like bubbles breaking the surface, but it doesn't feel as raw and jarring as it does when he’s fully sober. 

He remembers being a chatty drunk before, talking nearly non-stop at Steve, who was wearing a jacket too big for him and a patient smile. It’s with relief and also a small dose of self-exasperation that he finds that not even seventy years of mindfuck can break him of that habit.

“And there he is, under the deck and hammering away at it while I’m sitting on the damn thing,” he rants, throwing a hand up in the air to illustrate his point. He’s been talking about Clint’s predilection for destruction for over ten minutes now. “I’m sat there with my notebook like some sort of idiot, thinking being that close to Clint while he’s destroying the shit out of stuff is a good idea.”

“That’s Clint for you,” Coulson smiles knowingly. 

“Where are your notebooks, anyway?” Fury asks.

Bucky narrows his eyes. “You can’t have them.”

“No, I’m not going to take your things,” Fury says with a roll of his eye. “I’ve just not seen you with them in a while.”

“This feels like a trap. No more questions. I want my lawyer.”

Coulson and Fury both start to laugh. That's new, Bucky making people laugh in this century. He's maybe kind of proud of it.

He shakes himself, remembers that Fury is trying to steal his stuff.  “No, I’m serious. They’re my notebooks,” he insists, even as he’s telling himself to shut the fuck up already. “I write down everything I remember. Helps me trying to-” he waves his hand again. “Trying to find myself again.”

Fury takes a long sip of his drink. “Why are you trying to find yourself again?” 

Bucky looks at Coulson, bewildered. Coulson just shrugs, leaving Bucky to try and explain the obvious to Fury. “Because James Buchanan Barnes was a good man,” he says. “The Winter Soldier - that’s not what I ever wanted, that isn’t who I am. Bucky was good,” Bucky says fiercely, pointing at Fury and slopping whiskey over his wrist. “He was good and had friends and a family and Steve, and never killed no-one and never did nothing wrong-”

“Well no-one’s perfect so I bet that’s a lie,” Coulson interrupts. “And you can’t undo what happened.”

“I can,” Bucky says, rounding on Phil and pointing at him instead. “I am going to repress the absolute shit out of the Winter Soldier, you just watch me.”

Coulson reaches out and takes hold of Bucky’s finger. “You can’t. Your brain will break.”

“My brain is already broke,” Bucky says, bobbing his hand up and down so they’re almost shaking hands. “How much more can I do to it?”

“You should let it relax,” Fury says quietly, too quietly. “Instead of forcing it to be someone who is gone.”

Bucky rounds on Fury, mouth dropping open indignantly. He pulls Phil with him, who hasn’t had the foresight to let go of his finger. 

“I’m not gone! I’m right here!”

“The James Buchanan Barnes who shipped out during World War Two is gone,” Fury says. “And Phil is right. You can’t undo that.”

“So I’m just meant to embrace the Winter Soldier?”

“Maybe not embrace,” Fury says, sauntering over and taking the whisky tumbler from Bucky’s hand. He tosses it back in one. “Maybe...compromise.”

“Whatever,” Bucky says. “I’m going for a smoke.”

He snatches up his cigarettes and his lighter, shoving past Fury and out onto the porch. The sun is almost set and the yard is full of the sounds of insects. He kicks moodily at the railings, feeling wrong-footed and annoyed.

He will find himself again, he tells himself. He doesn’t care what Fury and Phil think, he’s doing this for himself and he’s doing it for Steve, who deserves to have his best friend back at his side. Bucky takes a long drag on his cigarette, suddenly wishing that Steve was here with him, not miles away on some godforsaken rescue mission. Hell, if Bucky were the praying type, he’d be hands together, eyes closed, down on his knees begging for Steve’s safe return.

He exhales heavily.  _ I’ll do it for you, Steve, _ _I promise,_ he says into the silence of his own head.   _ I’m gonna find who I used to be or I’ll die trying. _

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [The song Steve plays at breakfast.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-CmadmM5cOk)   
>  [The song playing in the barbers](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UprcpdwuwCg)


	8. Chapter 8

_Watching as the techs come closer, one holding a IV bag and needle, the other holding a metal tray of scalpels. The soldier doesn’t move his body, only his eyes, watching as they come closer. He holds out his right arm without prompting, staring at the needle in the man’s hand. His metal fist curls around the arm of the chair, gripping tight as the needle touches his skin-_

Bucky forces himself awake, out of his not-quite slumber. He feels sick, like he can't draw a proper breath. Pushes the covers away and twists to sit on the edge of his brand new bed, elbows on his knees and head in his hands. The room is silent, save for his deep breathing. The furniture that survived his clear-out stands there patiently, waiting him out.

That’s three attempts at falling asleep, and three effortless slides into horrible not-quite nightmares, his mind replaying memories over and over even as he tries to think of something better. The sound the wind makes through the cornfields. The sensation of Steve breathing, back pressed to Bucky’s. The taste of cola on his tongue, bubbles sharp and fizzy-

He’s on his feet before he really works out what he's doing. A minute later he's in the kitchen, raiding the cupboards. He makes off with three cans of cola, a bottle of beer, two packs of dried noodles and an apple. Once he's back safely in his room, he stashes his hoard under his new bed with the rest of his pilfered goods. He's like a goddamn dragon, if dragons liked non perishable foodstuffs instead of gold and treasure.

 _People should be scared of dragons,_ he thinks distantly, deliberately stopping himself before his tired brain came come up with any stupidly poignant metaphors about danger and bad reputations and untamed beasts. _You are not a dragon_ , he tells himself firmly. _You are not the Winter Soldier. You are Bucky._

Even with that firm reminder - and even with his stash restocked - he doesn’t feel any better. His mind keeps wanting to turn back to the dream, filing cabinet drawers threatening to rattle open and dump similar memories on him, more hazy stories of technicians and medical procedures that he never consented to. He swallows hard. “Safehouse,” he whispers out loud. “You’re here. Not there. It never happened. It’s gone.” Still unable to shake the prickling unease, he gets his notebook out of the backpack that's now hanging on the bannister at the top of the stairs. He doesn't know what to write so he opts for drawing a plan of the room, just like when he and Clint had made blueprints for the house.

He starts with the beds. Two singles, three feet apart, carefully positioned with their headboards pressed to the far wall. Next to the neatly lined up pillows stand two mismatched cabinets. On Bucky's there's two coffee cups and his tablet. Steve's is tellingly empty.

He stops drawing, hand and brain both stalling. Steve’s table is empty. What if Steve never comes back and it stays empty? What if Steve gets hurt because Bucky wasn’t there? Bucky’s been busy setting up this place for him and Steve like some goddamn little homemaker and Steve isn't even _here_ . He’s miles away, getting himself into trouble and fighting other people’s goddamn battles, _again_.

The notebook sails across the room, hitting the wall before dropping to the floor, cover bent and spine cracked. Bucky immediately feels a huge surge of guilt and crawls over to pick it back up, smoothing out it’s rumpled pages and apologizing.  There’s a lump in his throat and great, now he feels like crying. His emotions are doing overtime and _nothing_ is working to get them back in line.

He carefully sets his notebook on his bedside table, trading it for his tablet. He debates googling pictures of Steve but can’t bring himself to do it, instead opening up Youtube and setting the volume low. He selects his 1938 playlist but the first song is barely half a minute in before he realizes it’s not going to cut it either. The notes and lyrics just seem distant, unimportant. Like they can't penetrate into the places he needs them to. They can't even get past his eardrums into his brain, let alone his heart. 

He’s running out of things to distract himself. If he’s not careful he’s going to end up going downstairs to get a kitchen knife so he can practice fight routines and that is the exact opposite of what he’s trying to achieve in the long term.

Even if right now, it sounds sorely tempting.

An idea slowly unfurls in the back of his mind, fragile and tentative. He stares at the little red box of the Youtube app for a moment, considering. Could he...? He _shouldn’t_ do what he’s contemplating, but if it’s between this and the kitchen knives, he knows which is the lesser of two evils.  

He holds his breath and in the search bar he types the lyrics he can remember from that song in the barber’s shop. He’s already learned to ignore the ads so clicks on the first viable option, then promptly feels like throwing the tablet across the room when the exact right song starts playing. It’s like a drug, what with the way it makes his heart feel all fluttery and sends shivers down his spine. He hungrily brings the screen right up to his face, staring at the video as it plays. He’s got no idea why there’s a prison or why the man singing sounds just so sad but he doesn’t care. The moment it’s over he presses replay.

He’s watches it thirteen times.

He’s ready to go for number fourteen when the soft creak of floorboards interrupts him. He kills the app, holding his breath in the silence, fingers tightening on the edge of the tablet-

“Barnes?”

It’s Coulson, whispering his name. Bucky hears a bit of shuffling and a creak, then the sound of a foot on his staircase-

“I’m awake,” he calls out, shoving the tablet under his pillow and scrambling towards the stairs. “What do you want?”

“They’re on the way back,” Coulson says, and Bucky freezes. “Mission successful, ETA one hour.”

“An hour?” Bucky echoes, like he’s been reduced to a dumb parrot. “What?”

More shuffling. Another creak. “You want to come wait with us?”

“I want coffee,” Bucky replies, feeling pretty much like he’s been suckerpunched. Knocked out in the first round. Rogers, one. Barnes, nil. “Yes, I’m coming down.”

He heads down the stairs, finds Nick already sitting at the kitchen table and nursing a mug of coffee. The ugly yellow clock on the wall tells him it’s thirteen minutes past three. It’s too hot. He’s sweating. He might be sick.

Nick tells him to sit down, which he automatically does, too frazzled to even get wound up by how his body is automatically following orders. A mug of coffee is pressed into his hands and he drinks it in four tongue-burning gulps, wordlessly holding out the mug for a refill. Nick watches him with the look of a man who is going to make some sort of profoundly bullshit comment. Sure enough, he takes a maddeningly superior sip of his coffee and then says, “I thought snipers were good at waiting.”

Bucky glares at him. “I am _not_ -”

“Yeah, yeah, we know,” Nick talks over him, sounding bored. “But you’ve got the training, that’s not vanished. Use some of that zen right now.”

Bucky pushes away from the table, stalking outside with his cigarettes. It’s still dark and there’s the faintest chill on the air which has goosebumps rising on the back of his neck and down his right arm. He decides to ignore it, as well as ignoring Nick’s bullshit comments.

He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes and forces himself to wait.

 

* * *

 

The jet arrives back exactly fifty-eight minutes later. It circles the house twice and then descends, kicking up dust and dirt even as Bucky is automatically calculating the risk factor if they’ve been followed. The jet settles with a whine, engines flaring bright before they’re killed. Bucky makes himself stand on the deck, telling himself that running at the jet and flinging himself into Steve’s arms would not be considered heterosexually appropriate.

Fury and Coulson come out to stand with him. Coulson asks if he’s okay. Bucky ignores him.

The jet goes silent and then the back door disengages with a hiss and clunk of machinery, lowering itself way too slowly. Bucky’s heart leaps up into his throat, but the first figure to appear is motherfucking Sam Wilson. There’s more movement from the belly of the jet and then Clint appears with an unfamiliar woman at his side. Wanda, Bucky’s brain supplies. She looks so small, is his first slightly startled observation. She’s barely more than a kid.

They all jump down from the back of the jet, and Clint turns round to press something which makes the back door start to lift again, like there’s no-one else aboard.

“What,” Bucky says blankly. “What’s he doing?”

“Where’s Rogers? Maria?” Coulson calls over, starting to head down the steps towards them. Lucky bastard, apparently his legs work just fine and haven’t turned to jelly because that’s right, Steve is _missing and so is Maria._

“On his bike,” Clint shouts back. “They’ll be back soon.”

“Are you fucking kidding me,” Bucky says. His heart goes from his throat to sit down in his boots. “He’s not even with you?”

“Man wanted to take the bike,” Sam says, and even if it’s good-natured Bucky wants to strangle him. “Tried to talk him out of it.”

“Don’t worry,” Clint says, ushering Wanda across the yard. Shes got her arms crossed tightly across her middle and a backpack slung over her shoulder, hunched over like she's trying to make herself smaller. Clint is standing close, a hand on her arm. “I can tell by the look on your face that you’re glad to see me back because I’m clearly your favorite.”

“What do you mean, don’t worry,” Bucky manages to say. “This is _Steve_ we’re talking about-”

“He’s got Maria with him, chill,” Clint says, calm enough to earn himself a place on Bucky’s ‘to be strangled’ list. “Hey, this is Wanda. Wanda, this is Bucky.”

Wanda nods slowly, looking at Bucky a little warily. “The Winter Soldier,” she says slowly.

Clint makes a slashing motion across his throat, hastily stepping forwards like he thinks Bucky is about to launch forwards and attack her for even daring to say it. “Nope, no Winter Soldier here,” he says meaningfully. Wanda just looks from Bucky to Clint and back again, clearly confused.

“And here I am trying to be subtle,” Clint sighs. “Don’t call him that, he doesn’t like it.”

“You are never subtle,” Wanda remarks, but then turns to Bucky and says, “I’m sorry.”

Bucky waves her off, turns away from her and Clint and Sam and the stupid jet. Pushes past Fury and goes back into the house, back up to the room he’d put together for him and Steve.

He feels like ripping it apart with his bare hands.

He doesn’t. He sits down with his back to the wall, the circular eye window above his head. He grips his hair in both hands tight enough to hurt, trying to focus on the pain and not the hollow feeling in his chest.

Once again, he sits and he forces himself to wait.

 

* * *

 

He hears the rumble of the motorbike first.

Then he hears Clint shouting, and Steve calling back.

More voices join the rest. Maria too, which is a relief. Sam is saying something about being pleased to see Steve, and Bucky feels a swell of anger because someone needs to tell Steve he’s _a fucking idiot_ , not pat him on the shoulder and say well done. Back with the Howling Commandos it would have been him, and it’s infuriating that no-one else seems to be stepping up to bust Steve’s balls for being reckless and dumb.

Not that Bucky knows if Steve did anything reckless and dumb on this particular mission, but come on. It’s _Steve_ , Bucky thinks he’s got pretty good odds on assuming that Steve did something reckless and dumb.

The noise shifts from outside to inside. He can still hear the voices, muted through doors and floorboards, but he can’t make out any of the words. He waits it out, and then sure enough, he hears footsteps climbing the main staircase, and then the set up to the loft.

His heart picks up as he works out who it is. He’s not exactly surprised.

He lifts his head just as Steve appears at the top of the stairs. His mouth opens to say something but the moment he claps eyes on Bucky he stops dead. His eyes go wider and his mouth opens that bit further, shock written all over his features.

“Buck?”

Bucky takes his hands away from his head. “Where have you been?” he asks quietly. He wants to say _‘I was scared,’_ or _‘I thought you weren’t coming back,’_ but he doesn’t.

“Came back on the bike,” Steve says, eyes still glued to Bucky. “What - your hair.”

Oh. That’s what’s got him all bent out of shape. Bucky had almost forgotten about his hair, seeing as Steve was busy being not there and driving Bucky insane with worry.

Bucky stares at him. Steve stares back and does not offer any apology or explanation as to where the fuck he’s been or how the mission went.

Bucky slowly stands up. Steve seems to reboot and climbs the rest of the way up the stairs, still staring at Bucky like he’s grown an extra head. He’s wearing a dark blue combat suit, made of some tough durable fabric. Bucky spots the gap on the chest where there should be a star and wonders what has happened to it. Did this suit never have a star? Has Steve taken it off now he’s not allowed to be Captain America anymore?

“Why - you cut your hair,” Steve says, trying to keep his face deliberately impassive. He’s not very good at it. Bucky can see the uncertainty in his jaw, the confusion in his eyes.

“Yeah,” Bucky says. “Finding myself, remember?”

To his utter shock, Steve’s uncertainty doesn’t turn into understanding when he says it; instead, it slides completely the opposite direction into annoyance.

“Yeah,” Steve says, looking away with a scowl. “I remember.”

There’s a tense silence. Then Steve shifts his weight from one leg to the other and Bucky spots the darkened patch on the navy suit, right over Steve’s ribs.

“Is that,” he says, stepping forwards with his eyes glued to the blackened patch. “Is that a burn mark?”

“No big deal,” Steve says shortly. “If you’d been there instead of sitting around getting your hair cut, you’d know it’s not a big deal.”

Bucky rears back like Steve had swung for him, and Steve’s expression goes from angry to guilty and then back again, the briefest flicker of _‘oh damn I shouldn’t have said that’_ before it goes back to ‘ _fuck it I said it so I’m standing by it._ ’ Even so, he won’t look Bucky in the eye.

“You’re an asshole,” Bucky says around the tightness in his throat. This is not how things are supposed to be going. “I’m doing my damnest to be that guy again for you-”

“I never asked you to!” Steve bursts out, and then he storms away without looking back.

Bucky can only stand there, distantly wondering what the fuck has just happened.

 

* * *

 

 

 _Learning to navigate the controls of a_ _Mil Mi-24, his Russian co-pilot grumbling about flying a damn tank. Feeling the thud of the chopper blades as the man efficiently goes through the control panel, explaining switches and lights as he goes. Nodding as the man asks if he understands, reaching out to flick the cover off a switch with his metal fingers._

 _The co-pilot openly stares at his hand. The Asset ignores him, focus_ _ing on his mission. The co-pilot will be dispatched when the mission is over anyway. No loose ends. Besides, it’s not the most complicated helicopter he’s had to learn to fly._

He resurfaces from his memories when he hears the stairs creaking again. It’s not Steve, he can tell by the weight and how the person is moving. He’s hoping for Clint or Maria, and he goes very tense as he finds himself faced with Sam.

Sam edges up, hands in the air. “Don’t shoot?”

Bucky just stares at him. “I don’t do that anymore.”

“Course not,” says Sam, and then cocks his head. “Damn, you’re a good looking fellow. You know, now I can actually see your face.”

Now that’s what Steve should have said to him, instead of getting his panties in a bunch. Bucky narrows his eyes at Sam, not completely willing to take a compliment from Steve’s new best friend, no matter how nice he is. “What do you want?”

Sam sighs, goes over to peer out of the circular eye window before turning to rest his shoulder against the wall. “Steve is being a spectacular brand of asshole today,” he says bluntly. “Wanted to check you were alright.”

Bucky is torn between agreeing and going after Sam with hackles raised for insulting Steve. Considering that Steve _is_ being a spectacular brand of asshole, he slowly nods.

“He yelled at me,” he says.

Sam sighs again. Maybe he is the one that’s stepped up to the role of busting Steve for being an asshole. Maybe he just does it a little differently.

Bucky’s not sure how he feels about that.

“Well, we rescued Wanda,” Sam tells him. “Not without Steve going toe to toe with Stark, though.”

 _Stark,_ Bucky thinks, and his brain supplies him with the words _Howard, strategic, target._ He shakes his head to clear it, twitching impatiently. He tries to think logically without the unhelpful interjections from the filing cabinets.

“Stark,” he echoes, and then thinks ‘oh no’. “He got in a fucking fight with Iron Man?”

“You sound surprised,” Sam remarks. “Of course he did. They spent a whole ten seconds trying to communicate like big boys and then out come the repulsors and Cap goes in swinging.”

Repulsors. Energy. Scorched black material. “The marks on his uniform.”

“Yeah, he took some heavy hits,” Sam says unapologetically. “Dealt a few out too, pretty satisfying to watch.”

“No, not satisfying, what is he _doing_ ,” Bucky says angrily. “It was meant to be a stealth op and he goes fighting Iron Man - he’s going to get himself on the wrong end of a manhunt.”

“Yeah, that ship has most definitely sailed,” Sam nods slowly. “There’s probably a warrant for his arrest being written up as we speak.”

“I’m going to kill him,” Bucky says, and heads towards the stairs.

“Thought killing wasn’t on your agenda anymore?” Sam calls over to his retreating back. “Thought you’d given that particular hobby up since you last tried to put a knife in him?”

Bucky freezes at the top of the stairs, metal hand clenching around the banister. He turns to face Sam, who is staring back, unapologetic.

“You’ve been through some shit, I get that,” he says. “And because of that, you put us through some shit. I’ve decided that seeing as you were brainwashed, I can get over it and forgive you, but I’m not going to forget it.”

“It’s over. The Winter Soldier is gone,” Bucky says.

“No,” Sam says, his voice going unexpectedly gentle. “He’s not, and you trying to pretend he is is not good for you or anyone.”

Bucky looks away, stares at the beds at the other end of the room without blinking. People keep _saying_ that, like he should just give up on James Buchanan and take up being the Winter Soldier as his full time occupation. First Fury and now Sam, and that’s added to the even more complicated issue of _Steve_ being angry about him trying to go back to his old self.

Things are not making as much sense as he thought they would.

“Hey,” Sam says, still calm and gentle like he’s speaking to a feral animal. “Can I sit? You mind?”

He gestures to Bucky’s armchair. Bucky nods and Sam sits himself down, leaning forwards with his elbows on his knees. “You wanna sit?”

Bucky shakes his head but moves anyway, going to sit back on the floor next to his bed, his back against the wall. He looks Sam over, noting how tired he looks, but he doesn’t say anything. He waits Sam out.

“So, I had a best friend,” Sam says, so out of nowhere that it takes Bucky a moment to process what he’s hearing. “Guy called Riley. Pararescue, just like me. We were out on an op, he took a hit, he went down.”

 _‘Vulnerability, retain information,’_ Bucky’s brain tells him. He tells it to shut the fuck up. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I am using my story to hopefully get you to understand why you can’t just ignore the Winter Soldier flavored part of you,” Sam says. “You gonna listen?”

Bucky slowly nods.

“Okay. So, my best pal dies and I obviously don’t take that well at all,” Sam says. “I refuse to think about it. I ignore what happened, and I end up a mess. Six months later I’m in therapy and this shrink tells me that yeah it’s an unspeakably shitty thing to have happened, but I got to own it. I got to take the good and the bad, find some way of piecing it all together inside me.”

Bucky shakes his head. “You’re talking about the death of a friend. I’m - I did things, I killed, I spent seventy years-”

He has to stop. Can’t even talk about it. It’s so huge and frightening and impossible to even contemplate, let alone talk about.

“Okay Terminator, deep breath,” Sam says. “I know, I know your level of shit is unprecedented. But it’s the same principle. You’re gonna have to face it.”

Part of Bucky wants to say _‘I can’t.’_ The thought of opening all those drawers and facing up to it all makes him want to throw up or cry or both.

_“Bucky?”_

He snaps his head around at the sound of Clint’s voice, scrambling up and running towards it. He’s in such a rush that he almost falls down the damn staircase, barrelling right into Clint on the landing.

“Whoa, what’s up?” Clint asks, holding his hands out, palms hovering just over Bucky’s shoulders like he can hold him in place. Bucky doesn’t hesitate, just grabs Clint’s hand and pulls him along with him, down the stairs and out of the front door. The jet has been stowed back in the barn and Steve’s motorbike is standing in front of the doors; Bucky is sorely tempted to kick it over.

“Are we running away?” Clint asks, still gamely jogging after Bucky as he marches them down to the bottom of the yard. “Wait. Are we eloping?”

“I am getting away from Steve and Sam and decided to take you with me,” Bucky says, slowing to a halt next to the rusted basketball hoop, the grass swishing around his knees. He belatedly realizes he’s still got hold of Clint’s hand and lets him go. “Tell me everything that happened,” Bucky says, staring out over the fields before focusing and turning back to Clint. “The mission. What happened.”

Unease flickers over Clint’s face. “Everything?”

“I know he got hurt,” Bucky says. “Sam told me.”

“Oh thank god,” Clint says, shoulders sagging in relief. “I didn’t want to have to break that to you. Yeah, he was fighting with He Who Shall Not Be Named.”

Bucky stares at him.

Clint pulls a face, screwing up his nose. “Okay, no Harry Potter references. He was fighting Stark. It was pretty awesome though.”

Bucky sighs. Awesome is probably not the adjective he’d use, but he lets it slide. He sits down in the grass, patting a space next to him.

“Tell me everything,” he says again. “Come on, mission report.”

Clint flops down into the grass next to him and promptly twists around to put his head in Bucky’s lap, wriggling to get comfy. Bucky tenses but then slowly lets out a breath, bringing a hand down to tentatively rest on Clint’s shoulder.

“You sure you want to hear this?”

“No, but I need to,” Bucky says.

“Okay, but only if at some point I am allowed to explain Harry Potter to you.”

Bucky sighs. “Deal,” he says, and Clint grins and him and starts talking.

 

* * *

 

 

By the time Clint is finished, Bucky has learned that the op went off without a hitch until the moment that Steve came face to face with Tony Stark. Stark had told Steve that he was under arrest. Steve had objected and asked Tony to help. Tony had told Steve to apologize for his actions and sign the Accords and Steve had so charmingly replied by punching Iron Man right in the face.

The scrap had been short but intense, and a lot of ugly words had been thrown around. Tony had called Steve a traitor. Steve had thrown it right back at him. The fight had only ended when Wanda of all people had intervened, trapping Iron Man with her magic while Sam and Clint had dragged Steve away.

When his brain has gotten over the fact that the tiny kid they rescued is an astoundingly powerful magical being, Bucky can only laugh. It’s the sort of broken laughing that you do when the other option is crying.

He also reads between the lines and thinks that this fall out with Stark is upsetting Steve more than Steve is letting on. He tentatively pitches the idea to Clint, who nods sadly and agrees.

“Yeah,” Clint says, mouth turning down. “I know I say fuck that guy a lot, but he was a friend. That’s probably why I say fuck that guy so much. You know, he’s not just some bad guy we’re up against. It’s _Tony_. And that’s on top of him having to fight you, that was only like, a year and a half ago? If that?”

Bucky doesn’t want to think about that. The fact that Steve seems to be doing nothing but fighting his friends these days. “Were they close?” Bucky asks, bracing himself for the answer.

“Totes besties,” Clint says. “Not like you and Steve, that’s like some soulmates level shit right there. They were more best friends in a ‘you’re my friend but by god I want to punch you in the mouth some days’ sort of way.”

“I think I understand that,” Bucky says, pauses. “I made friends with you, didn’t I?”

Clint’s mouth falls open in affront. “How dare you. I am not your love-hate friend. I am your simply wonderful best friend. Coulson is clearly your love-hate friend.”

“Steve is clearly my love-hate friend.”

“He’s clearly your want to fuck friend, but apparently we don’t talk about that.”

Bucky shoves Clint out of his lap into the dirt and gets to his feet.

“Tell me I’m wrong!” Clint argues, not making any effort to get up.

“No, you’re not wrong,” Bucky sighs, still feeling like he shouldn’t be saying anything of the sort out loud where people can hear. “But I think right now Steve just needs a regular friend.”

He doesn’t wait around for Clint to make any more witty remarks, just leaves him there and heads back into the house. Maria is there at the table, and smiles at him when he walks in.

“I like the hair,” she says, then, “He’s gone up to your room.”

Bucky just nods in thanks and heads up the stairs, as quietly as he can. When he gets up there, he sees Steve is sitting on the edge of his bed, still in his uniform. He’s staring out the window, just like Bucky had been doing earlier. He looks lost and suddenly very young and vulnerable.

Bucky doesn’t say anything. He gets up the last of the stairs and Steve has got to know that he’s there but he doesn’t turn to look at him, just starts twisting his fingers together in a familiar nervous tell. Heart breaking a little, Bucky walks over and sits next to him. Steve still doesn’t look at him. Bucky watches him for a moment and then reaches out, putting a gentle hand on Steve’s shoulder to turn him.

“Buck,” Steve says tiredly, but Bucky is almost as strong as Steve and isn’t injured. He pushes harder and when Steve turns to object he simply wraps his arms around him and pulls him in for a hug.

Steve’s still tense as his forehead rests against Bucky’s shoulder. His hands are clenched fists and his spine might as well be steel.

“Just shush,” Bucky whispers, bringing up his metal hand to rest on the back of Steve’s neck. “I know you had to fight one of your friends again and - and that must have sucked.”

Steve goes, if possible, even tenser. “I’m,” he begins. He tries again. “I’m sorry that I snapped at you, I had no right-”

“Shush,” Bucky repeats. “I got you. You’re okay.”

And Steve shudders all over and then he’s going boneless in Bucky’s arms, slumping against him. His arms come to loop around Bucky’s waist and then Steve starts to cry. It makes Bucky want to cry too, makes him want to tear the world in two and piece it back together in a way that doesn’t cause Steve such grief and upset.

Steve doesn’t cry for long. He’s got it toned down within minutes, his breath heavy and wet against Bucky’s shirt.

“Jesus,” he says, pushing back from Bucky. “I’m-”

“Don’t say sorry,” Bucky says. “Go wash your face.”

Steve nods and does as he’s told. When he comes back he looks way better; still red and blotchy but infinitely less snotty and gross.

“You do not cry pretty, Rogers.”

Steve’s mouth flickers weakly in an attempt at a smile. He sits down heavily next to Bucky. “Last time I properly cried was when I lost you,” he says.

 _Oh,_ Bucky thinks, small and helpless. He feels like apologizing, but it’s not his fault he fell from a goddamn train in the Alps. Instead he says, “that was like seventy years ago, you must be repressed as shit.”

“Says you,” Steve replies.

“This isn’t about me right now,” Bucky says. “Seriously, Steve. Seventy years.”

“I just always feel so...empty,” Steve says suddenly. He goes back to twisting his fingers together, pressing the thumb of one hand into his other palm. “Like I don’t even have the energy to cry about it.”

Bucky’s not sure what to say about that. He reaches over, gently sets his hand over Steve’s, stilling his nervous fidgeting. “I’ve cried around eight hundred times since DC,” he says. “I must be doing it for the both of us.”

And Steve does laugh at that, though it's shaky and edged with tears. “God, I know I’m in the right but being right sucks.”

“You don’t believe that,” Bucky replies. “You love being right.”

Steve laughs again, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. “I couldn’t ever have signed the Accords,” he says. “I don’t care what Tony says.”

“You do though,” Bucky says, quietly.

Steve half shrugs. He’s quiet for a moment and then he gently turns his hand over in Bucky’s, slipping his fingers between Bucky’s metal ones. Bucky’s breath catches in his chest, unable to process. His stupid brain is immediately going, _‘hand holding, he clearly loves you, kiss him and you can live happily ever after.’_

He tells it to shut the fuck up, but Steve doesn’t help matters by heaving out a sigh and leaning sideways to put his head on Bucky’s shoulder.

“I’m glad you’re here, Buck,” he mumbles.

Bucky presses his lips together hard, trying to compose himself. He fights the urge to turn sideways and kiss Steve’s temple, but he does let himself lean his head against Steve’s.

“I’m glad you’re here too,” he murmurs back, and feels how Steve grips his metal hand that bit more tightly.

 

* * *

 

Apparently the chore rota waits for no man or mission, and an hour later Bucky finds himself sorting loads of washing while the others deal with making dinner, cleaning the bathrooms and dealing with the trash. There’s another swap around with bedrooms as well; Wanda and Maria take the largest to share between them, Sam and Clint end up sharing another and Coulson and Fury get one each. Steve and Bucky aren’t even factored into the decision, and Bucky doesn’t know why but they get to keep their loft space without any argument.

For the first time ever, they all sit around the dining table for dinner; since Bucky’s clear out they’ve got enough furniture to house all the tech, meaning the dining room table is once again free for its intended purpose. It feels bizarre, sitting around a table with such a random mixture of people, but Bucky finds he doesn’t mind. He’s got Steve on his left and Clint on his right and Clint’s bow is propped up next to them, so he can mostly relax.

Only mostly, because he knows that there’s still something between him and Steve, some issue surrounding Bucky’s quest to find his old self. He doesn’t bring it up though, because he’s selfish enough to want the current truce to last, not least because Steve is sticking to his side like they’re sharing the same damn jacket.

He watches Wanda for most of dinner, unobtrusive enough not to startle or upset her. She seems quiet, looks to Steve a lot before speaking, seems most at ease in her interactions with Clint. She looks wary of Coulson and Maria and downright scared of Fury, and Bucky feels a pang of empathy for her when he notices.

After dinner, Bucky avoids clear-up duty by sitting on the deck and smoking. He plans to then steal upstairs to hide from the crowd in the house, which doesn’t explain how he ends up sitting in the lounge with everyone else, crammed on the end of a couch with his feet jammed under Steve’s thigh.

Sam and Maria are kneeling by the coffee table and have gotten their hands on a jigsaw puzzle of all things. Bucky’s pretty sure it’s come out of one of the boxes from the loft that he’d relegated to the garbage heap. Regardless, they’re happily sifting through five hundred pieces of winter forest scene, talking very seriously in quiet murmurs about the best strategy for solving the puzzle.

Coulson is sewing up a tear in a bedsheet. He’s even more unnervingly scary than usual with a needle and thread in his hands.

Fury, Steve, Clint and Wanda are talking, and Bucky is listening. Clint has banned any shop talk for the night so they’re currently talking about vacations; where they’d like to go, parts of the world they’d like to see. Wanda wants to see the cherry blossoms in Japan. Clint wants to go north and see the Aurora and pet huskies. Fury wants to go to Rome to see the Sistine Chapel. Steve says he doesn’t know where he wants to go, but he’d probably pick somewhere warm.

Bucky doesn’t say anything, because really, he knows the answer would be _‘I’ll go where Steve wants to go,’_ and he’s not sure he’s ready to say it out loud, nevermind in front of a room full of people.

As the sun starts to vanish behind the horizon, Bucky turns down the offer for a beer and instead goes upstairs. Steve has assured him that they weren’t followed or tracked earlier but Bucky still feels antsy and like he needs to keep watch. 

He’s still standing by the circular window when Steve comes up to bed too. “You taking first shift?” Steve asks quietly. Half his face is in shadow, the only light coming from the moonlight that spills in through the windows.

“No, I’m just…” Bucky doesn’t know what to say. He trails off, just shrugs. He stands there awkwardly staring at Steve as Steve stands there awkwardly staring at Bucky. For a moment it looks like Steve is going to say something but he doesn’t, turning away and walking towards his bed.

“I’m gonna get some sleep,” he says, fussing with his pillow. He’s still got that weird _‘Imma say something’_ vibe so Bucky just stands there and waits, watching as Steve carries on rearranging his single pillow.

Sure enough, Steve abruptly turns back to him, the pillow gripped in his big dumb hands. “You want to go out tomorrow?”

Bucky blinks. “Out?”

Steve nods. The pillow is possibly about to be torn right in half. “Yeah. me and you. A ride. Something.”

He’s babbling. It’s strange. Bucky can feel the frown creeping over his face, wonders if he should call him out on it. Would he have called him out on it before? Some part of his brain is telling him to _wait, observe, react_ but he’s not sure that’s the old him talking.

“Buck?”

Right, he needs to answer the question. “Yes,” he says. “A ride. Me and you.”

Steve practically sags in relief, which is nice for Bucky’s ego and definitely nice for the part of him that wishes he and Steve were an actual real ‘me and you’ type thing. He offers Steve a weak attempt at a smile and Steve’s mouth hitches in a wavering reply. He finally lets go of the pillow.

“Go to sleep, Steve,” Bucky says. “You’ve had a busy day.”

Steve sits on the edge of his bed, miraculously doing as he’s told. “A busy day full of manly tears,” he says, reaching down to yank his socks off.

“I haven’t told anyone about that.”

“I honestly wouldn’t care if you did,” Steve yawns. “My male pride can handle it.”

Bucky makes a skeptical sound. “Steve Rogers showing weakness? Sure.”

Steve’s hands falter, his smile fading. He reaches back, pulls his shirt over his head. Goddamn it, he’s still fucking beautiful even when the room’s too dark to see properly. He’s just edges of moonlit skin and muscle and Bucky wants him so badly it feels like stomach ache.

“I’m not the same guy you remember from nineteen forty-four,” Steve says quietly. He throws his shirt in the vague direction of the cardboard box they’ve got in place of a clothes hamper, wriggles out of his pants and drops them on the floor beside the bed, sitting there in nothing but his briefs.

Bucky swallows hard. “You’re still Steve Rogers,” he says.

Steve heaves out a sigh, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. He turns big sorrowful eyes on Bucky and for a moment Bucky thinks he’s going to cry again, but all he does is turn away, lying down and rolling over so his back is to Bucky.

 _What the fuck,_ thinks part of Bucky. _Mission failure_ thinks another, which makes absolutely no sense seeing as he _doesn’t do that anymore._

He stays by the window, but isn't remotely surprised to find that he spends the whole night watching over Steve instead.

 


	9. Chapter 9

Bucky doesn’t stand by the window and watch Steve for the entire night. When Steve has fallen asleep he moves and sits in his armchair instead, because he even though he  _ could  _ stand still for six hours he doesn’t really want to.

Steve doesn’t sleep well, if his twitches and murmurs and occasional full-body jerks are any indication. At the peak, when Steve is shivering and his breath has gone all tight and snatched, Bucky finds himself up out of his chair, hovering uselessly near Steve’s bed. He wants to do something but there are no filing cabinet drawers full of memories of Steve having nightmares, nothing creaking open to show him how to deal with it. The closest he has are hazy memories of Steve being ill but that isn’t the same at all.

Luckily, Steve settles without Bucky having to do anything at all. So he takes himself back to his armchair and curls back up, watching carefully lest it start again.

Just as dawn breaks, Steve wakes. Bucky lets his eyes close and feigns sleep, listening carefully as Steve climbs out of bed, collects his wash things and pads down to the bathroom. 

They’ve got their not-date this morning. The ride out together that Steve suggested. His stomach goes all weird and dumb and fluttery just thinking about it, which is ridiculous because he used to hang out with Steve all the time and he’d always been able to lie and act normal.

That had been the old him, though. With the old Steve. Who according to current-Steve, doesn’t exist anymore, just like the old Bucky.

Navigating this being a man-out-time business is  _ exhausting _ . 

He hears Steve leave the bathroom and go downstairs and briefly contemplates taking his turn in the shower. He quickly decides nope, instead getting dressed and pulling on a glove over his metal hand, making sure it’s hidden from sight. 

He sneaks downstairs, finds Steve making toast and coffee. He sidles in and steals both, ignoring the exasperated look Steve sends his way. He just stares back and Steve’s mouth twitches before he turns to make himself some more breakfast.

“So you just wanna get out of here?” he says, sudden. He’s got his back to Bucky and he’s staring down at his toast like the answer to life is hidden within its crusts.

“Yes,” Bucky says, and then, “no.” A thought has occurred to him, not one that’s been dragged from the depths of a filing cabinet, one that’s new and fresh. “I have to tell Clint I’m going.”

Steve turns to frown at him.

“I went once without telling him and he said it was a dick move,” Bucky explains. “I’ll just go and let him know.” 

A big part of him wants to wait until he’s dismissed or given permission, but he overrides it and turns abruptly away from Steve, heading back up the stairs. He pads silently along the landing to the room that Clint and Sam share, edging in without knocking. Sam is curled up on his side under a sheet, only the top of his head visible. Clint is sprawled out on his back, one leg hanging off the bed and mouth hanging open. His bow is propped up next to his headboard but still, he’s all spread out and vulnerable and it’s making Bucky itch just looking at him.

He decides he doesn’t care about waking Sam up and strides over to Clint’s bed. “Clint,” he says clearly, and raps his knuckles against Clint’s forehead.

Maybe it wasn’t the best idea he’s ever had. 

Clint wakes with a strangled yell and a frantic flailing of limbs. Bucky steps back smartly, both a little shocked and impressed when he abruptly finds himself with a nocked arrow pointing right at his face. 

“The  _ hell _ is going on?!” Sam is up as well, staggering to his feet and looking shellshocked. The bedsheet is tangled around him, draped like a toga. “Are we needed?”

“Morning,” Bucky says. He ignores the ‘ _ draw weapon’ _ response that’s screaming in the back of his mind because he doesn’t have weapons any more. He keeps his left hand deliberately at his side and reaches out with his real hand to push the arrow away. “It’s me, don’t shoot.”

Clint blinks owlishly at him and then lets rip with a torrent of abuse that seems to have the word ‘fuck’ used in space of pauses to breathe.

“What the  _ hell _ ,” Sam demands again. Shit. He sounds angry. 

“I’m going out, I thought I better tell you,” Bucky says, and Clint stops yelling at him.

“Well, alright,” he says simply, and lowers his bow, sitting back down on his bed.

There’s a rush of footsteps outside and Maria appears, stepping in carefully with her gun held aloft. Coulson is right behind her, with his trusty taser in hand.  “What’s going on?”

“This asshole decides to wake us all up just to tell us he’s going out,” Sam says, brandishing a hand at Bucky. 

Maria lowers her gun. “Going out?”

Well, great. This isn’t exact what Bucky had planned. “Yeah, with Steve,” he says. Now he’s starting to feel bad, mostly because Maria looks tired and a little bit annoyed and he’s really gotten used to being her favourite.

“Maybe a more gentle wake-up next time?” Clint suggests, yawning. “I’m going back to sleep, see you later.”

“You are banned,” Sam says flatly, pointing at Bucky. “I’m not having any twitchy white boy sneaking into my room at the asscrack of dawn. Banned, you hear me?”

“Shush, he didn’t hurt you,” Maria says. “Look, the kicked puppy face is back.”

“Aw, Sam, you made him sad,” Clint yawns, already crawling back into bed. “How could you.”

“Me?!” Sam splutters. “You’re calling  _ me _ out here?”

While he has support somehow in his corner, Bucky beats a hasty retreat. He gently touches Maria’s elbow on his way past and she looks briefly surprised, but he doesn’t hang about long enough for her to make any comments. He just runs back downstairs to find Steve, nearly crashing into him at the bottom of the stairs. 

“What happened up there?” Steve asks, steadying Bucky with hands on his upper arms, concern etched into every line of his face. Not that the bastard has any real lines; he's forever young apart from those two faint frown wrinkles between his eyes. 

Bucky exhales in a rush. “I scared Clint and Sam and now Sam’s mad at me, can we please just go before Coulson tasers me?”

Steve looks at the ceiling, back at Bucky. For a moment Bucky thinks he’s going to get all indignant about the mere prospect of Coulson threatening him, but then he just nods and says, “Yeah, Sam doesn't like waking up on anyone's terms but his own. Let's go.”

He strides back to the kitchen with Bucky following in his wake. He's barely through the door before he's reflexively catching a backpack that Steve tosses at his head. He frowns, poking at it suspiciously as Steve retrieves two helmets from the counter. 

“Snacks,” Steve shrugs, and holds out a helmet. Bucky’s pretty sure he hasn’t worn a helmet in his life, but Steve will have his reasons. Either he doesn’t want Bucky to get his brains bashed out if they crash, or he’s thinking about them being recognised. Either way, he doesn't argue and simply follows Steve outside to the bike.

Okay, he’s probably not thought this through, because Steve is climbing onto the bike and pulling his helmet on, shifting to leave space for Bucky behind him. Right behind him. As in, so close behind him that they'll be touching. 

“Come on, just like old times,” Steve says through the open visor of the helmet. The bike rumbles into life.

_ -sitting on the back of the harley, back to back with Steve and literally held in place by a belt hastily looped around the both of them, covering their exit with a Glock in each hand, yelling at Steve to stop driving like a goddamn cabbie- _

Bucky nods slowly, a little off-centre from the memory. “Well, I hope we won’t be under fire this time,” he says, and then another memory make itself known, protesting and muscling its way to the front. Bucky narrows his eyes. “Didn’t you drop me off the back of the bike?”

Steve laughs, the sound muffled. “Just once,” he says. “Come on, you scared? I’m not gonna drop you.”

“I think once is plenty enough for me to be concerned ‘bout it,” Bucky grumbles and the look Steve sends his way is pure amusement. Now that’s just confusing. Yesterday Steve was going on about him not being that same guy and now here he is fondly reminiscing? Bucky’s pretty sure he’s missing something here, some fact or figure that would make this - make Steve - make sense.

“Come on,” Steve says, edging as far as he probably can into pleading. “You said you would.”

And Bucky can break seventy years of brainwashing, can start to pick himself up after near-death, can survive a helicarrier exploding around him, but he cannot say no to Steve Rogers. 

Pulling the helmet on is not as distressing as he thought it would be. The inside is warm and the padding is soft and squishy and it smells like Steve. It makes his head feel weirdly heavy but he knows he’s protected. Bonus - he knows that Steve is wearing one the same so he’s protected too. He slaps down the visor, throws a leg over the back of the bike, hands settling instinctively on Steve’s shoulders. “Is this even built for two people?” he asks, shouting so that Steve can hear him. 

“Nope,” Steve shouts back. “So hold on tight. Here.”

And he reaches up to take Bucky’s left arm and tugs it around his middle, so Bucky's hand is flat against his stomach. It pulls them tightly together, Bucky’s front plastered to Steve’s back. It’s wonderfully, terrifyingly intimate. “You need to stop, tap me,” Steve says, and Bucky uses his right hand to rap his knuckles against Steve’s helmet. Steve laughs and then he’s reaching back to gently squeeze Bucky’s knee before gunning the bike and taking off down the dirt track, kicking up clouds of dust as he does.

“Okay?” he yells.

“Just drive, Rogers,” Bucky yells back. “I know your record for crashing these things.”

Steve laughs again. “I only ever crash on purpose,” he says, which Bucky is pretty sure is a lie but he’s too preoccupied thinking about Steve’s ass being nestled between his thighs to worry too much about it.

It’s a warm day; probably too warm to be pressed up against 240 pounds of serum-warmed muscle, but he can’t bring himself to care about that either. They bike eats up the miles as they weave left, right through the grid system that seems to make up most of rural Iowa, passing very few other vehicles. Bucky tentatively settles into the sensation, thinking that he likes this, wondering if he should feel guilty about enjoying this.

He’s not really enjoyed anything - except for Steve brushing his hair - since he can’t remember when. He shouldn’t be out here in the world enjoying things, not after everything he’s done-

He closes his eyes, hard. Tightens his grip around Steve’s middle. He’s not going there. Not today. Today he’s going to be selfish. 

A couple of hours later and Bucky’s attention is drawn by Steve tapping his knee. He points at a sign that Bucky barely has time to read before it flashes by. A state park? They’re actually going somewhere? Somewhere where there’ll be  _ people? _

Bucky knocks against Steve’s helmet, alarmed. “Are you crazy?”

The bike is slowing down. “No, why?”

“There’ll be people,” Bucky shouts.

“Yeah, Buck, the world’s full of ‘em,” Steve says. “We’ll be fine.”

For a split second, Bucky contemplates jumping from the back of the bike. Steve possibly reads his mind because he reaches down with one hand to press Bucky’s goddamn hand firmly to his belly, like if Bucky jumps he’ll have to take Steve with him.

_ Ouch, brain, _ Bucky winces.  _ Pick another stupid metaphor why don't you. _

They turn past the peeling sign that announces the modest presence of the park and camping ground, slowing right down. There are a few other cars about, just enough to make Bucky feel twitchy as all fuck. Steve doesn't seem to care, just drives right past them and parks the bike in the shade of the trees, killing the engine and leaning back, stretching out his shoulders.

“No security cameras bar one at the camping office,” Steve says quietly, reaching up to unclip his helmet. “We’re still off the grid.”

“Yeah, until someone snaps you with a cellphone and puts it online,” Bucky says, remembering all the pictures he’d seen when he’d googled Steve. 

Steve elbows at him to get him to move, giving Bucky no choice but to clamber off the bike. He stands there uselessly until Steve climbs off the bike and gestures for the backpack, turning Bucky around so he can unzip it and delve inside. 

“Jeez, wait a moment,” Bucky complains, trying to slide it from his shoulders while Steve is tugging at it. “Christ, can you be patient for once in your life?”

“I’m great at being patient,” Steve says dismissively, and then reaches over Bucky’s shoulder to pass him a baseball cap. “Here.”

They trade the helmets for caps and sunglasses, Steve wryly telling him that he’s managed to walk through the entire Smithsonian, unrecognised, with only the same protections. Bucky’s first thought is  _ bullshit _ , followed by  _ why were you even in the Smithsonian _ , but he doesn't say it out loud. He knows damn well there’s a section in the Smithsonian all about him, and he doesn’t want to think about Steve looking at it, thinking he was dead. Instead, he just stands there and watches as Steve far too trustingly leaves the helmets next to the bike, pocketing the keys before gesturing to the grassy path not far from their current position.

“Wanna walk?”

“Steve,” Bucky says, a little helplessly. “People. What if - I’m not safe-”

“Bull,” Steve says. “You lived in Bucharest for long enough without hurting anyone. Besides, I’m here.”

And Steve has a point, so Bucky is nodding, and they walk.

It’s predictably peaceful. Bucky likes the dappled shade that the trees provide, and likes the view of the lake. He doesn't like the fact he’s hyper vigilant, focusing on every little sound and tracking every person like they’re a potential threat. His only comfort is that Steve is doing the same, though he seems calmer about it than Bucky.

“So,” Steve finally says, hands in his pockets and expression carefully casual. “I never said thank you for yesterday.”

Bucky frowns. “Thank you for what?”

“Putting up with me while I was being…” Steve trails off, pulls a face. “Over-dramatic.”

“You were not,” Bucky replies. “You were - fuck, I don’t know how you weren't more upset. Give yourself a break for once.”

“I’ve been told I’m not great at that,” Steve says lightly.

“You’re terrible,” Bucky says flatly. “Seriously. Your middle name is martyr.” 

Steve shoves at him with a shoulder. “Shut up.”

“Make me,” Bucky replies, and for some reason that makes Steve laugh.

They wander further in companionable silence. Bucky can hear insects and birds, the swishing of the grass and the rustle of leaves in the breeze. He knows that Steve is going to want to talk more though, can feel it coming a mile away, like you can feel a thunderstorm in the air before it breaks. 

Sure enough, they come to a sort of mutually agreed standstill next to a dried up waterfall, leaning against the fence and looking out over the listless water. It’s full of algae, and a fair bit of trash. One lone duck bobs its way about, pecking at the sun dried stalks of plants. 

“Go on then,” Bucky says, pulling his cap off and running his hand through his sweaty hair before tugging it back down, low enough so that he can’t look directly at Steve unless he turns his head. More importantly, Steve can’t see  _ him. _

“What?”

“Spit it out, whatever it is you gotta say.”

“Who says I gotta say anything?”

Bucky snorts. “At this stage in the game, I know you better than I know myself. Can read you like a book. We’re on chapter four, page eight. The bit where Steve gets his panties in a twist because he wants to talk about something but he can't actually get the words out.”

“Sounds like every chapter of my life,” Steve says, staring out at the water.

“So you should be used to it by now,” Bucky says. On instinct, he sways slightly closer to Steve, nudging him with his shoulder. “Come on.”

Steve inhales and exhales, steeling himself. “You know when they found me, they tried to lie to me,” he says. “Pretend I was in nineteen forty six. They had this whole set up, wanted to break it to me gently.”

The scorn in his voice tells Bucky exactly what he thinks of that. Bucky kind of agrees.

“What, like you wouldn't work it out in like five seconds?”

“Exactly,” Steve says, laughing humorlessly. “And when I bust out and found myself in Times Square with all the lights and the cars and not how it should have been...I wasn’t scared. I wasn’t angry. Not at first. I was just...resigned to it. So much crazy had happened in my life that ending up in the future just seemed...well, like another shitty chapter.” 

“Not exactly a plot twist?”

Steve almost smiles at that. “We’re gonna kill this metaphor before we’re done.”

“Yeah, probably.”

“Anyway,” Steve says. “They formed the Avengers within a month so that gave me something to do, but before that...god. It was just weeks of me wandering around trying to work out how the hell I could connect with any of these people. They hadn’t seen it, they hadn't been there. Sure, I met a few veterans who were in their nineties but - but I hated them, Buck,” he says suddenly, like he’s confessing. “A part of me hated them because they’d done it and seen it and managed to move on with living their lives and for me it was only _ weeks _ old. And they didn’t have perfect memories to remind them of every damn thing they’d seen.”

Bucky doesn’t know what to say. His throat is going tight, wanting to cry for that version of Steve, alone and scared in a new future without anything to hold onto.

“I made a joke to Natasha, just before I found you again,” Steve says. “She kept trying to set me up on dates, get me back out in the world. I told her that it was hard to find someone with shared life experience.”

He swallows hard and then turns his head to look right at Bucky. “And then by some goddamn miracle I get you back, and you start trying to pretend we don’t have any shared experience at all.”

Bucky goes very, very still. He wasn't quick enough to avoid Steve’s eye contact and now he’s stuck, pinned in place by the accusation and betrayal in those blue eyes. He can't think of a damn thing to say. 

“You just want to - erase everything and forget it ever happened,” Steve continues. He’s on a roll now, Bucky can tell. “Go back to how it was before-”

“Can you blame me?” Bucky interrupts, finally finding his voice. “You spent seventy years in ice, I spent seventy years-”

“You can’t just pretend it didn’t happen!” Steve exclaims. “It’s not good for you-”

“Oh I’m sorry, I thought we were talking about  _ you  _ needing the shared life experience?”

He’s landed a blow there, he can tell. Steve snaps his mouth shut, looking away. He shifts, standing up straight and curling his fingers around the warm wood of the fence. 

“Yeah,” Steve finally says. “Maybe I’m being selfish. Maybe it’s sick of me to want you to accept all that because I’ve had to accept all this bullshit as well. You’re the only person on the planet who has any idea what it’s like.”

Bucky wants to run and hide. His stomach has knotted up right under his sternum, a sick twist of emotion that he can’t shift or settle. 

“I thought,” he tries. “You - you keep talking about back then-”

“Yeah,  _ reminiscing _ ,” Steve says. “I can talk all the livelong day about what it was like being a ninety pound weakling but I’m never going to be that guy again. And if you go back to being Bucky from forty-four, where does that leave me? Because Steve from forty-four is long gone and he’s not coming back.”

Bucky really thinks he might cry now. “Don’t say that,” he says, voice low. “He is not- You are not-”

“Oh give me a break, Bucky,” Steve snaps. “Christ, Clint and Maria may have been coddling you but I’m not buying into this shit.”

He pushes away from the fence and stalks away, head low and shoulders tight. In that moment Bucky wants to throw a punch at the back of his dumb blond head, wishes that Steve’d never shown up at the fucking safehouse, that Bucky could just be left in peace to put himself back together.

Fuck. If he’s not going back, then what does that leave him with? He doesn’t know, but he has a horrid feeling that his mission and being friends with Steve as he stands here now are two incompatible ideas.

“Hey,” he calls out, tired. Steve doesn’t stop. “Hey,  _ asshole! _ ”

“Shut up,” Steve snaps back.

“I can stop you if I need to,” Bucky calls out, and that  _ does  _ stop Steve. He about turns and points an angry finger at Bucky.

“Exactly,” he shouts. “You can, because of who you are. The guy in forty-four couldn’t stop me but  _ you  _ can.”

They’re going round in circles here. God, Bucky forgot how exhausting arguing with Steve can be. It’s worse because there’s no clear cut right or wrong here, no one person with a clear advantage over the other.

Faced with a Steve who is growing steadily angrier, Bucky decides to back down, if only momentarily. He holds his hands out in a pacifying gesture, an ‘ _okay, calm down’_ which he hopes will work.  He lifts his eyes, meets Steve’s frustrated gaze. He’s too tired for another round of this. He either needs to win by knockout or concede some ground.

Damn. It’s going to have to be option two. He gestures a little helplessly at Steve, his voice going quiet and lost. “What do you want from me?”

“I want you to be,” Steve begins, but stops himself. His shoulders slump, his anger bleeding away. “Forget it. I’m being selfish.”

Bucky walks over to him. Wanting to be close in some way that he can’t really explain. “Then be selfish for a moment. You can’t  _ make  _ me do anything, but you can tell me what you want.”

“I want you to be my friend,” Steve says, suddenly less angry and far too vulnerable. “I want - I want someone who knows back then and knows now and all the shit in between, but I can’t ask that of you.” Something like realisation dawns over his face, and he presses a hand to the top of his head. “I can’t ask that of you, what am I even  _ thinking- _ ”

“Steve, stop,” Bucky says. Begs,really. “Just stop. Let me think.”

Miraculously, Steve does. He stops ranting and just stands there, staring miserably at Bucky. Bucky’s pretty sure he must look about the same. It feels awful; Steve is right there in front of him but he feels a million miles away.

“This was a bad idea,” Steve breaks the silence, and possibly also Bucky’s heart if the way his chest feels is any indication. “We should go.”

Bucky doesn’t know what else to do, say or think, so he just nods. They walk back to the bike in silence, the atmosphere between them brittle and unsatisfied.

Bucky watches as Steve pulls on his helmet, and then finds himself promptly taken over by some sort of madness.

“Let me drive.”

Steve goes very still. This is not normal operating procedure. Back in the day, Steve always drove, but if he’s making stupid points about them being different, well then. The Winter Soldier always drove too, so someone is gonna have to give way.

Steve looks like he might argue but then he just tosses the keys to Bucky. 

Bucky’s pretty sure he’s gone completely insane because this is literally flying in the face of his whole _‘find old self’_ mission, but now he’s realised that it’s not going to work, he’s maybe going to have to try something new.

It’s terrifying.

He shoves the fear away, pulls his helmet on and climbs back onto the bike. Another new, dangerous thought is unfolding in his mind, despite the protests from the filing cabinets. Steve is probably expecting him to drive like he would have done back then. He’s expecting speed, but for Bucky to be careful. 

He’s not expecting anything like what the Winter Soldier can do with a bike.

It’s half spite that makes him do it, which is also fairly new. Whatever the motivation, he goes with it. He breathes in and out to settle himself, pulls both of Steve’s arms around his middle, then fucking guns it.

He can tell Steve is shocked by the way he jerks and tightens his hold around Bucky’s waist. His helmet knocks against Bucky’s but Bucky doesn’t stop, streaking out of the car park and onto the road, leaning hard to slide the bike round the bend. Steve is tense at first, a cumbersome weight on the back of the bike, but after a few minutes he just seems to let go, going practically boneless behind Bucky. He slumps into him, leaning with Bucky in the turns and allowing him to pick up even more speed.

They tear along, overtaking the occasional vehicle at speeds which earn them a few disbelieving glances and the occasional indignant blare of the horn. Bucky knows it’s reckless and dumb but fuck it. He’s not about to slow down for anyone. He’s in control here.

Mostly. Steve leans forward and lifts a hand to signal to Bucky, who understand immediately. Next left turn. He taps Steve’s hand to show he’s understood and Steve goes back to holding tight around his middle, only letting go even now and again to give Bucky more directions. They work like a well-oiled machine and Bucky can’t help but wonder if Steve was right, if they fit together better in their current fucked up states more than they would if he were to go back. 

It takes just over an hour for them to get back. He slows down when they’re close, doing a few looping detours to make sure there’s no-one on their tail or no cops chasing them down. When he’s satisfied, he turns the bike onto the track that will take them to the safe house. Steve is still holding on around his middle with both hands. He doesn’t think about what that means. His brain is done for the day.

He parks up, kills the engine. Climbs off the bike and pulls his helmet off, caught between defiance and some sort of adrenaline and panic. Steve moves much more slowly, reaching up to slowly unbuckle his helmet, so slowly that Bucky’s tempted to put him in a headlock and yank it off himself.

Finally, the helmet comes off. Steve is looking, no  _ staring _ at him in a way that Bucky can’t pinpoint. In a way he’s never seen before. His cheeks are flushed and his eyes are big and dark and Bucky doesn’t know what he was expecting but it certainly wasn’t this.

Steve licks his bottom lip. “Buck,” he says, voice very low. It goes right to Bucky’s gut and pulls, as does the way Steve steps closer to him, eyes still fixed on Bucky’s face. He stops a couple of feet away, opens his mouth to say something-

A shout from the house breaks the spell. Steve jerks away from Bucky, jaw going tight and angry all over again. It’s Clint who’s disturbed them, standing on the deck and waving his arms like they could somehow miss him, what with all the shouting and his ridiculously bright purple shirt.

“You’re on TV! Cap!”

“Stop calling me that,” Steve mutters, then glances to Bucky again. Now he just looks confused, which is making  _ Bucky  _ confused, but before Bucky can find the courage to ask, Steve is turning away and walking towards the house, leaving Bucky standing there in the dust like an idiot.

 

* * *

The TV says that Steve Rogers is now a wanted criminal, and that several federal agencies are working together to determine his whereabouts. There are lots of swooping overhead shots of the Avengers compound, some close ups of the shattered windows. Police tape flutters in the breeze and there are men in suits everywhere.

The news anchor keeps repeating the word criminal. Steve doesn’t look like he gives a shit, which Bucky finds vaguely worrying. His eye twitches when they cut to a shot of Tony Stark standing there in his Iron Man suit, sans helmet and sporting an impressive black eye. No-one notices Steve’s reaction though because of the noise Clint makes when they show the Black Widow standing next to him.

“Natasha, no,” Clint groans, dropping his head into his hands. Bucky pats his shoulder.

_ “...along with ex-Avenger Clint Barton, alias Hawkeye, Rogers broke into the Avengers compound to steal classified information and equipment...” _

This time the outburst comes from Wanda. “I am not equipment!” she snaps. Bucky makes an alarmed sound as red light starts to drift across the room, lifting all the furniture several inches from the floorboards, including the couch that Sam, Maria and Clint are all sitting on. 

Bucky’s instinct is to level a weapon in her direction, but his hands are empty. He thinks of the weapons that are in the house, how quickly he could get to them, if he is going to need range rather than attempting to go hand to hand-

“Wanda!”

At Steve’s shout, she blinks and the spell literally breaks. The red light dissipates and all the furniture falls back with a bang.

“Oh,” Wanda says, voice tiny. She stares at her hands and then gets up and walks away. Bucky watches her go, wondering if he could throw up from the sheer weight of his guilty conscience. Christ, one slight alarm and his go-to is weapons and violence.  

Clint sighs, rubbing his face. “Well, at least they got my name right this time,” he says, attempting humour. “They usually leave me out.”

“Congratulations, you’re now a famous criminal,” Fury says. “What a mess.”

Clint shrugs, kicking his feet up onto the coffee table. “I’d rather be a famous criminal than a puppet."

“Seconded,” Maria says tiredly, smacking Clint’s leg so he puts his feet down. “Cap, you okay?”

“Yeah,” Steve says automatically. “Turn that shit off.”

Someone does, and the the screen goes blank and dark.

 

* * *

Steve is a terrible liar. He’s clearly not okay. He spends the next two hours ferociously chopping wood with an old axe, even though fall is still a few weeks off and there’s literally no need for firewood. He then goes and hides in the loft, sitting on his bed with a book that he's just staring at rather than reading.

Bucky avoids him and instead sits at the bottom of the garden. He feels listless and completely lost again, like he’s back to square one. 

He’s on his fourth cigarette when he gets company in the form of Clint, who wanders over to sit down next to him, yawning. “You’ve got to do the laundry at some point today,” he says. “Rota says so.”

“Fuck the rota,” Bucky grumbles, and Clint laughs. 

“Dare you to say that to Steve’s face.”

Bucky rubs at his brow, grimacing. “We kind of had a fight.”

Clint groans, flopping backwards. “You what? I thought you’d go off this morning and come back married or something. At least engaged.”

“Stop it,” Bucky says, half-hearted because he doesn’t really think Clint will stop. “He doesn’t know I’m queer and he’s straight, so whatever.”

“He is not,” Clint says. “My gaydar says he’s at least a three.”

Bucky doesn't want to bite. He really doesn’t. “Gaydar?”

“My sense of how straight someone is,” Clint says. “On a scale from zero to ten. Zero being “I’ll pass on the dicks, thank you, and ten being “I’ll pass on the-”

“Okay, okay, I get it,” Bucky interrupts hastily, before Clint can lower the tone any further. There’s a beat of silence and then he says, “I’m an eight.”

Clint laughs so hard his knees curl up to his chest, arms wrapped around his belly. “Yeah, you are,” he says happily, hiccuping himself back into coherence.

Bucky can't help but smile too. Clint’s moods are infectious, really. “I never talked about this out loud before,” he says, pulling at the grass with his metal fingers. “This is new.”

Clint sits back up. “Did you and Steve by any chance argue about your whole...finding the old you thing?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, then looks up at the sky, squinting in the sun. “I don’t think it’s going to work.”

“Okay,” Clint says simply.

“Okay?”

“Yeah, okay. I was gonna support you if that’s what you wanted to do, but if you want to branch out I’ll support that too,” Clint says, then his mouth falls open in delighted shock. “Oh my god, there’s so much _new_ I can show you. Like, you might like cat videos or Scottish twitter or modern art. You might like parkour, you’d be so good at parkour-”

“Clint, stop,” Bucky says again. Oh god, it’s like having another Steve, a dumb blond who doesn't listen to a goddamn word he says. “I don’t know what I like, okay?”

“Well we can find out!” Clint enthises. “Fashion! You don’t have to dress like your old self anymore, you can wear jeans, please let me introduce you to jeans-”

“I know what jeans are, moron.”

“Then you should at least try some,” Clint says. “I can take you shopping, we’ll get you a whole new wardrobe, Steve will be like oh my god who is that super hot fashionable guy that just moved in and you can be like boom, take off the ray bans and be like surprise, bitch-”

Bucky shuts him up by leaning over, holding Clint’s head in place with his real hand and putting his metal hand over his mouth. “Clint,” he says, very patiently, considering. “Please stop. I understand about fifty percent of what you just said. Slow down.”

Clint nods, so Bucky takes his hands away. “Your hand tastes like pennies.”

“You regularly eat pennies?”

Clint waves him off. “You know, that metal taste?”

Bucky’s brain provides him with sense memory of the smell of blood. He doesn't like it. “Yeah, I know,” he says quickly. He pulls at some more grass, turning to sprinkle the torn up blades over Clint’s legs. Clint brushes the first handful off and then just lets him do it, resigning himself to the inevitable. Bucky waits until his guard is down then throws a handful of grass in his face. Clint splutters and shoves at him, and Bucky grins.

“You’re an asshole,” Clint says. “Is that a new or old thing?”

Bucky shrugs.  “I might need some help.”

“We’ve got you,” Clint says. “You’re not alone with any of this.”

Bucky nods mutely and Clint claps him on the shoulder, a fraction of a second before he throws a handful of dirt right back in Bucky’s face.  
  


 

* * *

 

They go back inside after a while longer. They find Maria and Sam quietly working on the jigsaw puzzle and join them, sitting on the floor on the opposite side of the coffee table.

“Hi,” Clint whispers.

“Do not ruin the peace and quiet,” Maria replies immediately, eyes scanning the assortment of pieces yet to find a home. 

“I’m whispering, aren’t I?”

Bucky spots a piece that should be connected to another on the other side of the table. He contemplates telling Sam or Maria and then just decides to do it himself, so he doesn’t have to talk. Sam nods at him as he slips the piece into place so he takes that as permission to join in. 

Clint manages to stay quiet for another ten seconds. “Where’s Steve?”

“Showering,” Sam replies. “Brooding. One of the two. Possibly both.”

“Sounds about right,” Bucky mutters. 

Maria grins at him across the table. “So where did he take you on your romantic early morning bike ride, then?” she asks. “Somewhere nice, I hope?”

Bucky freezes, his old deer-in-headlines response working just fine. Clint wouldn’t have told anyone right? There’s no way she actually knows? He makes his mouth move. “A park. For a walk. It’s not romantic.”

“You’re right, Steve isn’t romantic,” Maria agrees. She looks like she's only paying part attention to the conversation with the majority of her focuson the puzzle, but Bucky knows she's a damn good spy so doesn't take the information his eyes pass to his brain as completely reliable. 

He upgrades status _ ‘Maria knowing I'm queer’  _ from slim to possible. She wouldn't have picked to say  _ romantic  _ if she didn't think something was going on, surely. 

“Oh come on,” Sam says. “He’s a traditionalist. He’d do wining and dining and flowers and holding doors, the whole works.”

“Steve going on a date would be a car crash that I would pay to see,” Clint says. “He’d end up talking about fascism or how easy it is to decapitate an alien with his shield or something.”

“Some people would find that interesting,” Sam says. “And yeah, he’d be bad at small talk but he’d still be romantic. He'd pour the lady a glass of wine and  _ then  _ kill the mood by talking about how he can't get drunk.”

Status _ ‘Steve is straight,’ _ is still at definite, no matter what Clint and his gaydar say. 

Christ. Back in the day Steve never had a chance to be romantic. And Bucky can’t really see his current mood making him any more so. It doesn’t stop his brain from thinking about it though; picturing Steve pulling out a chair for some faceless woman, climbing out of a cab with a bunch of flowers in his hand.

Combing his fingers through Bucky's hair. Sharing a bottle of beer with him, trading it back and forth between them. Leaving him snacks on his nightstand.

“Romance is such an outdated concept anyway,” Maria says. “So much of it is too close to misogyny.” 

“Hear hear,” Clint says. “What? Maybe I wanna be bought flowers too. Maybe I’m sad that society says that’s weird.”

“Sure, Hawkeye, it’s the flowers thing that makes you weird,” Maria says with a roll of her eyes. “And what about you, Bucky? You the romantic type?”

“No,” Bucky says. “I might have been before, but I’m not anymore.”

There’s a moment of quiet as Bucky's words hang in there air. Sam glances at Maria who looks at Clint who pats Bucky on the head like he’s a damn dog or something.

“Bucky’s not being his old self anymore he’s going to be new Bucky,” Clint says brightly. “We’re trying new things.”

Bucky responds by shoving Clint over sideways. He thinks it gets his point across pretty succinctly. 

“Well good for you,” Sam says, surprised but genuine. “What’s changed your mind?”

“Well you and Fury and Steve all gave me the speech,” Bucky says. “I don’t know.”

“I’m taking him shopping,” Clint says, clambering back up onto his knees. “Find him some new things.”

“Makes sense,” Sam shrugs. “Well, not if Clint is talking about you clothes shopping, he's a white boy whose favourite colour is purple.”

“Hey!”

Maria nods in agreement with Sam. “Your taste is questionable. Last time you bought him clothes he ended up looking like Coulson.”

“That's what he asked for! Didn't I say that I didn't want to buy you old man clothes?”

“So I wear old man clothes?”

They all jump a mile as Coulson interrupts pleasantly from the doorway. Clint slowly starts to edge away, shuffling on his knees, clearly scanning Coulson for any taser-shaped concealment. 

Bucky leaves him at Coulson’s mercy and creeps upstairs. Fury's door is closed and so is Wanda’s so he edges silently past, heading upstairs. 

Freshly showered and with still damp hair, Steve is attempting round two with his book. He does look up at Bucky though, mouth hitching in a weak smile. “Didn't think you'd be talking to me,” he says. 

“You probably shouldn't think,” Bucky replies before he can bite it back, but Steve chuckles anyway. 

“It's you, you make me crazy,” he says and turns down the corner of his page-

_ stop dogearing my books, Steve, for chrissakes I borrowed that off of Paul and now I’ve got to give it back with the corners all mauled - what do you mean, that’s a word, it is a word, just like jerk is a word which is what you are  _

-and looks at Bucky. “I'm not going to apologise for what I said earlier,” he says without any preamble. “I meant it.”

“I know you did,” Bucky says. He goes over to sit next to him. Christ Steve smells good. How is Bucky ever going to get any thinking done with Steve this close?  

Steve dips his chin in acknowledgement. Fiddles with the book. Doesn’t say anything else. 

Well. Steve brought it up again, so Bucky reckons that this is probably a good point to come clean. 

Steve,” he says, “You know… what we argued about. Me trying to find myself?”

Steve nods slowly, guarded. 

Bucky swallows hard. “Mission fail.”

Steve’s eyes go wide and Bucky has to look away from all the blue. He stares at the floorboards instead. “Mission fail,” Steve repeats and Bucky nods.

“Yeah, you were right. It’s not going to work.”

He hears Steve swallow, the hard exhale he makes. He’s about to try and find more words but Steve is there, turning him so they're facing and wrapping him up in a hug.  “You're still you,” Steve says, right into his ear in a way that makes Bucky shiver, “In all the ways that count.”

And Bucky's got no idea what that's supposed to mean, but Steve is warm and close and they're not arguing, so for now he'll take it. 

  
  
  
  



	10. Chapter 10

Bucky passes out pretty much the moment he gets horizontal. He thinks it’s probably the Steve-exhaustion more than the fact he stayed up the whole of the previous night. Whatever it is, it means he’s out like a freaking light and only wakes up when Steve brings him coffee the next morning.

“You are my favourite,” he mumbles, making grabby hands for the mug. To his chagrin, Steve pulls it back out of his reach. Bucky just stares at him, wondering if Steve really does have a death wish.

“On one condition,” Steve says. “You shower and brush your teeth. You’re getting a little ripe, Buck.”

Bucky scowls at him. Just because Steve’s all freshly showered and shaved and clean doesn’t mean everyone else has to be. “That’s two things.”

“Well let’s just put them together under the umbrella of personal hygiene,” Steve says. “Come on, it won’t hurt you.”

Bucky gets up and swipes the coffee from Steve, though seeing as he just woke up and he’s all stumbly and caffeine deprived, the truth is probably that Steve let him have it. His Winter Soldier reflexes are already going soft around the edges.

He does what Steve asks, forcing himself through the shower as quick as he can get away with. He doesn’t wash his hair properly but he does give himself a scrub down with the body wash that was in his kit, mindful of the fact that Steve said he stinks. He wonders if Steve will like the smell of the body wash and then promptly tells himself to stop being so fucking stupid. 

He climbs back up to the loft with a towel wrapped around his waist and his shirt pulled back over damp skin. He’s all covered up but still feels weirdly naked, especially as Steve is still up there when he returns. He falters, unsure about normal operating procedure. Would old Bucky just drop the towel and get dressed like its no big deal? Would he ask Steve to leave?

Though considering everything he learned yesterday, maybe he should stop asking himself that. Maybe he should just work out what he wants to do right now.

“I gotta get dressed,” he blurts out, holding onto the towel with his metal hand gripping so tightly that he’s probably going to rip it.

“Yeah you better change that shirt too,” Steve says. “Give it, I’m taking a load down for laundry anyway, seeing as  _ someone _ didn’t do it yesterday-”

He holds a hand out. Bucky freezes. Steve blinks and then goes bright red. It’s like someone has filled him up with a kettle. Bucky’s surprised there’s not steam coming out of his ears.

“Shit, sorry,” Steve says. “I just presumed - you want me to leave?” 

Bucky thinks about it for a moment. Obviously, a moment isn’t long enough for his fucked-up brain because all he manages to come up with is, “Uhhh…”

Steve practically runs. “Okay, I’ll catch it later, catch you later, okay, yeah,” he rambles and then he’s gone. 

_ Well, shit, _ Bucky thinks. How the hell is he meant to navigate this whole what he wants to do business when he’s sidestepping Steve acting all bent out of shape? Complicated doesn’t even begin to cover it, really.

Dressed and still confused, he goes down for a smoke, grunting at everyone as they greet him. Maria passes him a plate with a bagel on as he slouches past and honestly, if he didn’t think she’d throat punch him for it, he’d kiss her. He settles at the bottom of the garden with his breakfast, hunched over like he’s scared a bird or something’s gonna swoop down and steal it.  _ Or Clint, _ he thinks, narrowing his eyes as Clint appears, jumping down from the deck and wandering down the path. 

“You’re not having my bagel.”

“I don’t want your bagel,” Clint replies, with a roll of his eyes. “Jeez. If you’re gonna start hoarding food again can you at least make it non-perishables?”

“Sure,” Bucky says. “Now when all the cans of soup go missing I’m gonna tell Coulson you said I could.”

Clint laughs, settling down in the grass beside Bucky. “You know I’m kidding. You take all the food you want.”

“Will do,” Bucky nods. “Hey, you seen Steve?”

“Doing the laundry,” Clint says. “But like doing the laundry in that intense sort of way he does when he’s doing something to avoid talking about something. I think the machine might end up broken.”

Bucky groans. “He still does that? He used to just draw, like staring at the paper and ignoring everything anyone said-”

_ File under Steve, ninteentwenty. _

“Yeah he does,” Clint says. “More lately. Like if you mention Stark, or the Accords or-”

“Me?”

Clint looks baffled. “What?”

Bucky shoves a piece of bagel in his mouth so he doesn’t have to answer. 

“Don’t you start,” Clint says. “Come on, what was that supposed to mean?”

Ugh, Clint just doesn’t quit. Bucky should have remembered that. He glares, chews, swallows. “He...he went all weird on me earlier,” he says slowly, testing out the feel of sharing. “He asked for my shirt and then seemed to panic and he ran away.”

Clint positives cackles. “It’s because he realised he would a popped a boner if you’d got your abs out.”

“You’re a freak,” Bucky informs Clint darkly. “It’s more like to be because I’ve got a metal arm, you idiot. He was all weird about it last time he saw it.”

“Maybe the metal arm gives him a boner?”

Bucky closes his eyes, shakes his head. “You are no help at all.”

“I am the best at helping. Look, you’re making jokes and everything.”

Bucky doesn’t reply. He lights a cigarette, lets himself use it as time to think. He feels...well. Kind of weirdly okay, considering a) the fight he and Steve had yesterday and b) his first mission failure since he failed to kill Captain America on the helicarriers. He’s kind of okay with being a failure, especially when he’s chosen to fail. 

“So, you know yesterday when you were talking shit about helping me out?” he asks absently, breath held in his chest before he exhales in a rush. “I think I need some new clothes.”

“Oh my god. Are you asking me to take you shopping? Is this happening? Is this turning into straight eye for the queer guy?”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Never mind, obligatory pop culture reference made, can we go shopping now? Project Bucky Barnes two point oh?”

Bucky thinks about that. He doesn’t want to be a completely new version of himself - he still looks at that picture of him and Steve side by side and laughing and desperately wants to find the pieces of himself that can make Steve feel like that again - but maybe there’ll be some old and new that can fit together. It’ll be like growing up, just in one quick hit instead of spread out over years. Like when he saw his cousin Martha on her third birthday and the last he remembered of her was a squalling  _ baby _ , and there she’d been, walking and calling him Buck-Buck and asking for his hand-

He winces, pressing the heel of his hand to his forehead. Ouch, that sucker hurt, like a needle behind his eyeball.

“Bucky?”

“File under family, pre-war,” he says, still gritting his teeth against the pain. “Fuckin’  _ ouch _ .”

“Memories still coming back?” 

“Every damn day,” Bucky says. He shakes off the pain, climbs to his feet. “Right. Let’s go steal me a new look.”

“How about I buy you a new identity and you pay me back?” Clint suggests. “You know, just to avoid the potential wrath of the local police?”

“Alright,” Bucky says. “Whichever works out easier. But I’m great at stealing things, just so you know.”

“You and me both,” Clint says, and when he grins Bucky finds it pretty easy to smile back. 

 

* * *

 

They get as far as the pickup before Steve appears, looking suspicious. 

“What’s going on?” he asks, curling his fingers over the edge of the window and peering in. He looks worried and slightly betrayed, Bucky thinks. Like a labrador being left behind and not understanding why his owners are abandoning him.

“Going shopping,” Clint says, slamming the drivers door. “You coming?”

Steve’s expression goes very careful as he looks from Clint to Bucky. Bucky sighs internally because honestly, Steve is a freaking open book, one with WANT TO GO, DO NOT WANT TO CROWD BUCKY, AM I WELCOME HERE scrawled across its pages.  If Bucky says no, he’ll probably smile and nod and spend the next hour chopping more goddamn firewood while crying on the inside. Not that Bucky  _ wants _ to say no, considering his soul-consuming crush on the man.

He pushes the door open; it creaks and whines in protest. “Get in,” he tells Steve, budging over to sit on the middle of the bench. Steve doesn’t hesitate, climbing in and shutting the door, twisting around to look for his seatbelt.

“Sorry,” Clint mouths with a grimace but Bucky shakes his head. “It’s okay,” he mouths back and Clint nods, reassured. 

“Alright, roadtrip! Rogers, you’re my copilot this evening, Barnes is head stewardess and will be handing out snacks and non-alcoholic beverages on request, remember to count up your frequent flyer miles and please stay seated in case of turbulence.”

“That joke was a dud when you said it in the jet,” Steve says. “It’s not exactly heightened by the fact we’re in a pickup.”

Bucky snorts with laughter. Clint just shrugs and puts the truck into drive. “You have no sense of humour,” he says.

“You have no sense,” Bucky replies, and Steve huffs out a laugh.

“Oh sure, Steve’s not laughed in four years and then you show up and now everything’s hilarious.”

“I laughed that one time Thor made a joke,” Steve says, slipping his sunglasses on. “And I laughed when Sam couldn’t keep up with me running.”

“You laughed yesterday when we were in the park,” Bucky adds. “And when we were sat out here talking.”

“I wanna know how this works,” Clint says. “Is it like an algebra thing? You put your negative asses together and it makes a positive?”

“Probably,” Bucky says, and Steve grins. “Shit, since when did you know math, Barton?”

“I can count all the way to ten on a good day,” Clint shoots back and both Steve and Bucky laugh at that. Bucky feels the smile lingering as he slumps down into his seat, putting his feet up on the dash. Steve swats at him but he just elbows him back and leaves his feet exactly where they are. He’s comfortable, and he’s been through enough to earn every small piece of comfort he can get his mismatched hands on. 

“Dangerous,” Steve comments.

“Comfy,” Bucky replies, and on pure instinct, he tips his head sideways to rest on Steve’s shoulder. Steve shifts and then moves closer, tipping his head to lean against Bucky’s. It makes his memories shift, and he fleetingly remembers sitting in the back of a jeep and sleeping just like this, Dernier shouting in French from the front.

The memory drifts up, sinks back down. Bucky files it under Howling Commandos, Steve, 1944, but lets it go without too much dwelling. That was then, this is now. It’s the same, but still so different.

And for the first time, Bucky consciously decides that that’s okay. 

  
  


* * *

 

First stop: cigarettes. Steve echoes some automatic response about them being bad for you, but Bucky chooses to not care. He’s been through a lot in his life that’s very, very bad for him; a few cigarettes aren’t really going to top seventy years of brainwashing, torture and cryogenic freezing.

He dwells on that a little as they wander around town, his baseball cap pulled low. He’s not really acknowledged the whole brainwashing-torture-cryogenic-freezing debacle since breaking out of Hydra’s control. Only in those panicked moments when Clint mentioned it and Bucky did the adult version of sticking his fingers in his ears while shrieking ‘not listening!’

“Hey,” a soft voice says, drawing him from his thoughts. “Okay?”

“Mmmm,” he says, giving Steve a nod. “Just thinking.”

“You’re quieter now,” Steve says, with an apologetic little half-smile. “I think I like it.”

“You’re quieter too,” Bucky replies. “Not running your mouth every three and a half seconds is a nice change of pace.”

“Well you not cussing every other word is an improvement.”

“You having a decent haircut is an improvement.”

“Oh, you wanna go there? I had to brush your hair out for you when I first got here-”

A couple of paces behind them, Clint starts to laugh. Bucky half turns, giving him a glare. “You can shut up, you nearly brained yourself with a hammer when you’d been working for three minutes.”

Clint just grins back. “You do jokes now. It’s great.”

“The joke is how Steve can go through being made into a super soldier and they managed to miss his crooked fuckin’ nose.”

Clint barks out a laugh; Steve’s mouth drops open in affront. “Low blow, Barnes.”

“Easy pickings, Sweetheart,” Bucky says without thinking, then promptly wants the sidewalk to open up and swallow him. Oh look, a drainpipe. He could climb up that and run away over the rooftops plenty quick enough.

“If I was your sweetheart, you’d be nicer to me,” Steve grouches.

Bucky abandons his running-climbing-escaping plan. “Nah,” he says, and then plucks up some bravery - and a little bit of belligerence - from somewhere and adds, “new me is dark and bitter.”

“I know,” Steve says, “I like it, it’s kinda exciting.”

Bucky turns so quick to look at Steve that his neck clicks. However, Steve has spotted a sandwich shop and therefore his stomach has taken control of his brain. Well, that’s how it used to be back in the day; from the look on Steve’s face Bucky is guessing that at least that much hasn’t changed.

Sure enough, within five minutes they’re crammed into a booth and Steve is looking pained as he can’t draw attention to himself by ordering two of everything on the menu.

“Just order a regular person size sandwich and then get one to go,” Bucky tells him. “Tell the waitress it’s for later and then eat it when we’re gone. Christ, I thought you were supposed to be a tactical genius.”

“I can’t think when I’m hungry,” Steve replies, still distractedly scanning the menu. “That’s why I keep you around.”

Sat on the opposite side of the booth, Clint’s eyes are flicking back and forth between them, clearly enjoying the banter.  “You’ve smiled more in the past week than you did the whole time we lived at the Avengers compound,” he observes. “Going rogue and telling the government to fuck off has really done wonders for you.”

“I feel like a new man,” Steve says, squinting at something. “What the hell is spaghetti squash and hemp?”

Bucky’s lips twitch. It’s nice, he thinks, to not be the only one that’s clearly navigating a fucked up future. Steve’s had a few more years practice at it than he has, but still. 

“Maybe I need a new identity too,” Clint says. “Bucky’s doing it, you’re doing it. Maybe I should. I could be Hawkeye the second. Or a ninja or something. Start a new team. The Rams.”

“Rams?”

“Rejected Avengers and Misfits,” Clint says promptly. 

Bucky laughs, but Steve frowns. “Keep your voice down,” he says mildly. “Oh come on, all I want is a regular sandwich.”

“You’d be a terrible hipster,” Clint says, and gets two blank looks back. “Never mind. Order that one. It’s just two types of ham and mustard.”

Bucky lets Clint order him a sandwich too, and on a whim decides he wants a milkshake too. Steve gets him a large and the three of them sit in companionable silence as they eat. It’s nice, Bucky thinks. He’s very aware of his surroundings and he’s keeping an eye on all the entry and exit points, but he’s not scared. The panic and contact anxiety that had kept him going while living in Bucharest is gone, nothing more than a memory that’s been safely filed away. 

He could almost start thinking about the future, rather than how he’s going to get through the day. 

_ Almost. _

 

 

* * *

 

His anxiety decides that he’s had enough of a break and crashes back into the picture the moment he starts looking for new clothes. Half of his brain is screaming  _ This is nothing like nineteen forty three  _ and another bit is yelling  _ not enough pockets for weapons  _ and somewhere there’s also a piece chanting  _ get what you want, get what you want, get what you want,  _ like he somehow knows what he wants. Fuck, he decided to try and move with the times like a day ago, how is he supposed to already know what he wants and likes?

“You’re pulling a face that reads as overwhelmed or constipated,” Clint says, leaning on a clothing rack. Steve is nowhere to be seen - off buying new sneakers - and that’s not helping Bucky’s panic-response any.

“Definitely the first,” he admits.

“Okay. Overwhelmed by the choice? Alright. Narrow it down to colours, first. Not like one specific colour, but like do you want dark stuff? Bright stuff? Neon? Patterns?”

Okay. That’s just one thing. He can do that. “Dark,” he finally manages. The word feels right as he says it. “Black. Nothing - nothing green. Nothing like army uniform.”

Clint nods. “Come on then. Dark it is. Now we go for fit - tight or loose…”

With Clint’s somewhat haphazard guidance, Bucky finds himself selecting two black t-shirts, two long sleeved grey henleys, a black pair of jeans and a pair of dark grey things that Clint says are ‘loose-fitting-low-crotch-yoga-pants.’ Bucky doesn’t give a fuck about what they are - and doesn’t know what yoga is - but the pants are soft and scream comfort and have deep pockets and if anyone tries to take them from him he will react with extreme prejudice.

Steve turns back up just as Bucky is clutching his yoga pants to his chest and considering escaping via the window. He takes one look at Bucky then sidles in close, pressing his shoulder against Bucky’s. It’s wordless but Bucky speaks fluent Steve and understands it to mean ‘ _I’m here, I’m focussed on supporting you, I’ve got you.’_

He’s unbearably grateful for it. So grateful that he considers handcuffing himself to Steve so he can have his comforting bulk pressed close all the time.

Then his brain goes ‘ _ what about the shower, _ ’ and Bucky blushes so hard he thinks his goddamn teeth go pink.

Steve pays for everything and it makes Bucky flush even more. It’s like he’s some sort of- of -  _ kept man, _ swanning around shopping while his fella indulgently pays for all of his wants. Steve doesn’t help dispel the notion because he gently rubs at Bucky’s back, between his shoulders while paying, smiling a soft sort of smile that just screams ‘I’m so proud of you.’

Back in the truck, he holds his purchases on his lap, real fingers playing idly with the sleeve of one of his new Henley’s. So goddamn soft. Steve stashes his purchases behind the seat so he’s got space to lounge back into the corner, yawning and looking relaxed for once. Bucky thinks he’s being discreet with his glances, that is until Steve huffs out a laugh and gestures to Bucky. 

“Come on then.”

“What?”

“You remember, right?” Steve asks. He leans up a little, tugs at Bucky until he finds himself turned so he’s leaning back against Steve, tucked in under his arm. He lifts one foot and sets it on the seat, knee bent.

_ -being jostled in the back of the truck, head tipped back against Steve’s shoulder, mouth hanging open as he dozes, Steve snoring behind him, cheekbone bumping against Bucky’s head- _

_ “ _ Yeah I remember,” Bucky says. 

“Good,” Steve says, sounding satisfied. “Hey, what-”

“What the hell,” Clint interrupts. “Shall I just throw a mattress down in the back and you two can spoon on that?”

Bucky forcibly nudges him with his foot.

“Spooning is reserved for extreme circumstances,” Steve says without missing a beat. “Buck, what do you reckon I’d look like with a beard?”

“An idiot,” Bucky replies. “Seriously?”

“Yeah!” Steve actually sounds disappointed. “I thought I’d do something new.” 

Clint starts to snigger again. Bucky’s sure he’s up to no good so he forcefully nudges him with his foot again.

“Quit kicking me,” Clint bitches.

“Quit being a jerk,” Bucky replies, then reaches back to pat Steve’s jaw. “You wanna grow a beard, you grow a beard.”

“Definitely no fragile masculinity in this truck,” Clint says. “Hey, if I twist round and get my feet up will someone give me a foot rub?”

“No,” Bucky and Steve both say. Bucky’s the one to continue, nudging Clint with his toes again, “Just drive, dingbat. Foot rubs when we get home.”

“You’ll actually give me a foot rub?”

“Pfft, no. You really want metal plated fingers on your arches? I’ll get Steve to give you one.”

He misses the face that Steve probably pulls in response, instead leaning back and closing his eyes. He feels safe here, comforted by the rumble of the engine and the steady thump of Steve’s heartbeat against his back. It’s nice. Feels kind of new and hopeful in a way. Like his fresh start after Hydra is finally really beginning.

 

* * *

 

When they get back, Steve is out of the truck first, heading straight for the house and probably going to find a snack or ten. Bucky is going to follow him, but Clint grabs his wrist and holds him back, expression delighted. 

“He means you!” he mouths.

“What?” Bucky screws up his face, confused.

“New things!” Clint whispers. “He’s gonna do new things!”   


“What, the beard?”

“No,  _ you _ ,” Clint grins. “You’re the new thing he’s gonna do!”

Bucky immediately lunges forwards to clap a hand over Clint’s mouth. “Shut up,” he hisses, checking over his shoulder to see if Steve is gone. Clint twists free, pushing him away, still grinning even as Bucky scowls at him. “We’re not like that-”

“Oh please,” Clint says, past withering and all the way into scornful. “You just curled up on him and went to sleep.”

“We’re friends.”

“You were nestling your head between his tits.”

“He does not-” Bucky begins, and then stops. He senses getting involved in this argument will be futile. Besides, Steve’s chest is awfully impressive, and he privately thinks that referring to Steve’s chest as tits in front of him would be hilarious.

Huh, his sense of humour is making a come back, and it seems to appreciate crass jokes and embarrassing Steve.

“Fine,” he amends, reaching into the truck the grab his purchases. “But it ain’t like I was face first in them. That was all strictly platonic, pal.”

Clint snorts with laughter, but then rolls his eyes. “Sure. You didn’t see the way he was looking at you.”

“Shut up, Barton,” Bucky repeats, and slams the door to punctuate his statement. When he goes in, no-one is to be seen except Sam, who is sitting cross-legged in front of the coffee table, staring down at the jigsaw puzzle that he and Maria have been working on.

“Hey, Terminator,” Sam calls before Bucky can sidle away. “You doing okay?”

Bucky wonders if he could walk away and blame the rudeness on being in cryofreeze too much. “Where is everyone?” He asks, scanning the room and listening for voices.

“Upstairs, outside, around,” Sam says slowly. “You okay?”

Bucky nods. He edges back a step, then another, and is about to make a break for it when Sam looks up and beckons him over. “Hey, come help me with this,” he says, like he and Bucky are best pals. Well, it’d make Steve happy, Bucky supposes, and he did kind of like doing the puzzle the other day. And maybe Sam isn’t completely, totally as bad as Bucky’s jealous brain sometimes thinks he is.

And really, he could do with all the friends he can get. He’s still only able to count his number of people who’ll see him without shooting on sight on the fingers of one hand.

He kneels down opposite Sam, eyes scanning the pieces.

“You been shopping?” Sam asks, not looking at him. Huh, this is nice. Jigsaw puzzles equal conversations with no eye contact. Information retained.

“Yeah,” Bucky says. “Picked out new clothes.”

“What d’you get?”

“Uhh...shirts. Not button-down shirts. Just t-shirts,” Bucky says, then adds, “Yoga pants.”

Sam’s mouth falls open in overjoyed shock. “You did  _ not _ .” 

Bucky nods, takes them out of the bag, holds them up. Sam nods, approval radiating from his damn pores. “Man, I thought it’d take longer for you to start picking clothes that don’t look like they’re from the good old days,” he says. “They look comfy, man.”

Bucky nods. “That’s why I picked them.”

Sam nods. “You like being comfortable?”

Bucky rubs at his forehead. “I…” he begins, hesitates. “I immediately try to think if I would have liked comfortable before,” he says, eyes fixed on the puzzle pieces. “But that don’t matter, right? If I like comfortable now, then that’s the end of it.”

“Look at you, all grown up,” Sam says, and from anyone else it would sound patronising but from Sam it just sounds weirdly genuine. 

“I’m still...working on it,” Bucky says.

“Hey, let me metaphor you,” Sam says, looking around until he spots what he’s looking for: a pen. He flips over several of the jigsaw pieces so their naked cardboard sides are up. Bucky’s reminded bizarrely of a tortoise, shell down and waving it’s legs in the air.

“So, this is James Buchanan Barnes, right?” Sam says, and writes JBB on the back of a puzzle piece. “There’s bits of that guy still around in you. And here’s...I don’t know. The Winter Soldier.” He doesn’t hesitate before writing Winter Soldier on the back of another piece. “And then, there’s you now. Who are you now?” 

Bucky shrugs. “Just Bucky. I think.”

“What did your mom call you? When you were little?”

Bucky has the answer to that one. It’s already there, filed in the right place. “James,” he says. “Unless I was in trouble. Then I got a full James Buchanan.”

Sam writes ‘Just Bucky’ on a piece, then ‘James’ on another. Then without even asking he writes ‘WW2 vet’ on a piece and ‘POW’ on another, then he clips them all together. “Look. They’re all you. All life experience,” he says. “And if I flipped them over to look at the picture they make…” He gestures to Bucky, as he sits there in front of him. “You.”

Bucky’s throat goes tight. He stares down at the Winter Soldier piece, touches it with a metal finger. “I wish this piece wasn’t.”

“We know,” Sam says frankly. “But you can't just cut a piece out, or you’re not gonna get the whole picture.”  

It’s too much. Bucky gets up and walks away. Sam calls after him but he ignores it, heading away from his dumb truth-telling puzzle pieces and up to his room. He barges past Coulson on the stairs but doesn’t even stop, just gets up to his room and tries not to completely freak the fuck out-

“Buck?”

His chest feels like it’s got iron bands around it. He can't draw a proper breath and his head aches. He wants it all to  _ stop _ .

“Bucky.”

He looks up, sees Steve coming closer. Takes a step forwards instead of back. Steve reaches out immediately, and Bucky gives the fuck up and lets himself collapse into Steve’s hands.

He ends up sitting on the floor, his back to his bed. Steve is sitting behind him, gently stroking his fingers through Bucky’s hair, as well as he can seeing as it’s pretty short. With every pass of Steve’s fingers against his scalp, Bucky relaxes a fraction. The sensation of panic fades and he’s left feeling empty and exhausted.

Damnit. He’d been doing so well.

“You okay?” Steve murmurs after a while.

Bucky doesn't move. Because if he says no, Steve might worry. If he says yes, Steve might stop with this thing he’s doing and Bucky’s pretty sure that Steve’s hands are the only thing keeping him from panicking all over again.

“What happened?”

“Sam,” Bucky mutters, turning to hide his face in Steve’s thigh. 

“What did he say to you?”

Steve sounds like he’s about to start knocking heads, and even if Bucky doesn’t currently rate Sam all that much, he recognises that Sam doesn’t deserve to be on the end of a Rogers-tantrum. “Leave him be,” Bucky mumbles. “He was helpin’ I guess. I just…we were talkin’ about me being made up of all my parts. Winter Soldier included.”

“So you'll talk to Sam bout it but not me?” Steve says, faintly teasing, tugging at Bucky’s ear.

“He kinda sprung it on me,” Bucky admits. 

“Which would explain the whole,” Steve says, which must mean Bucky's whole pale, shaking, panicking thing. “Sam's a trained VA counsellor, you must have been too tempting.” 

Bucky rubs his cheek against Steve's denim covered knee. “Fuckin great. Being someone else’s project isn't exactly what I wanted.”

“He’s probably just doing it on autopilot,” Steve says. “He's usually pretty vocal about not being on duty for us assholes.”

“So I'm a special case?”

“Well you have been through a lot,” Steve says quietly. He tips Bucky's head back slightly, stroking his palms up and over his forehead in a smooth repetitive motion, laughing softly when Bucky closes his eyes and makes a contented grunting noise in his chest. “Jeez Barnes, you're like a goddamn cat.”

“You started it,” Bucky says. “I’m gonna fall asleep if you keep doing that.”

To his consternation, Steve stops. His eyes flutter open and his shoulders tense up, but Steve just taps him gently.  “Up you get then, not having you fall asleep on the floor, you'll get a crick in your neck or drool on my knee.”

Bucky groans but climbs to his feet. He's about to clamber onto his bed for either more petting or a ten hour nap when he freezes dead in place. 

Steve shoots to his feet too. “What?”

“My stuff, I left my stuff with Sam, my new clothes-”

He's got no idea why the thought is sending him into such a spiral of panic; it's like thinking about Coulson finding his stash of food or Fury taking his notebooks. He feels like a grade A moron, like an utterly incompetent human being for freezing over a fucking bag of clothes-

Steve lunges for the stairs and he's gone. Standing uselessly next to his bed, Bucky hears him crashing down the stairs, a scream from Wanda, an indignant shout from Clint. Barely ten seconds later and hurricane Rogers crashes back into the room with Bucky's bag in hand. He skids to a stop, pressing it into Bucky's hands.

“What,” Bucky manages, clutching his things to his chest. 

“You were panicking again,” Steve says, like it's obvious. “I know you're protective over your stuff these days and I thought I could… help? Bucky?”

Bucky wants to kiss him. Wants to channel the feeling that makes his heart feel all swollen and displaced into something, anything. For one wild moment he recalls everything Clint’s said about Steve’s feelings for him, matches it with the look on Steve’s face. Surely it’s gotta be something more. Surely if he leaned in right now, Steve wouldn’t push him away.

“Buck?”

It’s not worth the risk. Steve is somehow still defending him, looking out for him, caring for him even after everything he’s done. He can’t risk losing that. Well, he’s hidden his crush for seventy years. A few more won’t hurt.

He looks down at the floorboards, taking a moment to reset. Still feels the urge to do something, so takes the more heterosexually appropriate option and hugs him instead, carefully wrapping his real arm around Steve’s neck. He turns his head, nose brushing the soft short hair behind Steve’s ear. “Thank you.”

“Anytime,” Steve says. “Hey, you're shaking. Come on, sit.”

Bucky wants to resist but he's exhausted and this is Steve, thus resistance is futile. He ends up manhandled onto his bed, made to lie down. He's still clutching his shopping bag. Steve doesn't appear to hesitate at all before sitting onto the bed next to Bucky, reaching out to brush his fingers through Bucky's hair. 

“This okay?”

Bucky nods, then remembers he’s allowed to be honest about his needs and wants, shaking his head instead. “No, you’re looming.”

Steve moves, climbing slowly onto Bucky’s bed, like he’s giving him time to object or change his mind. Bucky’s not about to turn down a chance to get close to Steve and soon enough ends up with Steve lying next to him on the probably-too-narrow bed. 

It’s kind of awkward while they’re shuffling around and trying to negotiate mattress space for two super-soldier bodies. Bucky’s still holding his bag to his chest and is hyper aware of just how close they are. Steve looks nervous, like he’s out of his depth-

_ Don’t touch me, goddamn it Steve, I feel like my goddamn skin is crawling, do I look okay to you?! _

Bucky clenches his eyes shut hard. Without thinking, he reaches out to twist his fingers in Steve’s t-shirt. Maybe the Winter Soldier part of him doesn’t deserve this but Just Bucky and James and the POW part of him probably do so fuck it. He’s going to be selfish.

Fingers touch his jaw. It’s so gentle that he could cry. He acts on instinct, curling in on himself and ducking his head under Steve’s chin. Steve immediately wraps an arm over him, pulling him in close. It feels like a hundred years since anyone has held him like this - fuck, it  _ is _ almost a hundred goddamn years since he’s been held like this.

He starts to laugh, the somewhat hysterical sound muffled by Steve’s chest. Steve obviously mistakes it for crying because he strokes his hand up and down Bucky’s spine, shushing him.

“It’s okay, I got you.”

Laughter fading, Bucky heaves our a sigh and settles into Steve’s hold. It’s slightly too warm but he’s not about to move, not for anything.   
  



	11. Chapter 11

He’s drifting, not quite asleep, not quite awake. Like it’s a warm ocean, gentle waves, fractured blue light. Steve’s his anchor, safe and real under his mismatched hands. His breathing feels like the tide, the slow gentle in and out like surf on sand. He could easily sink deeper, into the black depths of sleep. 

A creak. Driftwood? Boat? A voice. Filtering through the depths, echoing through the water. 

Bucky’s eyes snap open. He’s suddenly and violently awake, like being dragged to the surface. There are people too close and he’s vulnerable and they’re coming to put him back in the ice-

He lashes out, hard. His fist connects and he seizes the closest person, flipping them over and slamming them to the floor. He pins them down, real hand around their throat and metal first raised and ready. 

“Bucky, no!” 

He blinks. He breathes. He remembers.

Steve is on his back beneath him, chest heaving. One hand is holding onto Bucky’s wrist. The other lies limp at his side. Clint is standing close, and he’s got his bow in hand, fully drawn with arrow pointing at Bucky.

“Ease up, Barnes,” Clint is saying carefully. “Okay, you know where you are? You’re in Iowa with me. That hunk of muscle between your thighs is Steve.”

“Steve,” Bucky rasps out. He shakes his head from side to side slightly, trying to clear the fog of sleep and parse sense out of reality.

“Hey pal,” Steve says, a little breathless. His eyes are locked on Bucky's. His body is tense but his face is calm. Calmer than it fucking should be, considering. “Guess we just learned a lesson about waking you up too suddenly.” 

 _“Fuck_.” Bucky covers his mouth with his hand. “Fuck, I’m so sorry, I’m so-”

Steve swallows hard. He shifts underneath Bucky, clearly uncomfortable. “Uh, Buck, I’m gonna need you to get off.” 

Bucky lets go of Steve and collapses backwards, sliding off of him. His ass hits the floorboards between Steve’s knees, his feet hooked over Steve’s hips. Steve pushes himself up onto his elbows, staring at Bucky with wide eyes before looking away. He swallows again, shoulders hunching in, like he’s trying to curl over, trying to shield all his vulnerable places from attack. “It’s okay,” he says, still sounding like he can’t get a proper breath. “Buck, I’m okay-” 

He is not okay, he’s clearly so scared that he can’t _breathe_ properly. There are pink marks on his neck from Bucky’s fingers, matching the pink that’s blooming across his cheekbones.

“Steve-”

“I better go,” Steve says, unsteady. He extricates his legs from the tangle they’ve ended up in, staggering upright. He won’t look at Bucky now. “Clint - Clint, look after him, I’m going to go make coffee.” 

Clint is staring at Steve with an intensity that Bucky can’t fathom. “How about you stay here and I make coffee,” Clint says. 

“No!” Steve is already heading for the stairs. “I’ll do it, I’ll go, I’m clearly the one that’s upset him, I’ll go.”

And he’s gone. Clint’s laser-focus state turns into an expression of pure exasperation. “You’re so full of shit!” he shouts after Steve, then walks over and holds out a hand, hauling Bucky to his feet. 

“Goddamn,” Bucky hisses, rubbing at his face. He wants a cigarette. “Shit. This is why I can’t have good things.”

Clint inexplicably starts to laugh. “This is why we don’t have nice things.”

Bucky is _not_ laughing. In fact, he’s starting to feel the red-hot curl of anger rising up through his chest. “Why are you laughing right now?!”

Clint does his best to sober up. “Sorry, this kind of thing just is like second nature. Steve never tell you what happened the time he woke me up when I’d fallen asleep on the couch?”

“No?” 

“Headbutted him in the face,” Clint says, resting the lower limb of his bow on his foot and spinning it round. “Broke his nose.”

“I’m still failing how to see how any of this is fucking funny.”

“All of us are crazy in more ways than one. You’re not the only one who has nightmares or freaks out when they wake up. Steve sleepwalked for about a week after New York. Hang on, that doesn’t sound right. Sleepwalk? Sleptwalk?”

Bucky’s momentarily taken aback. “He did?”

“Oh yeah. And Stark used to get night terrors too. So yeah, I feel bad for you but you’re not special or anything. Jeez, anyone ever tell you it’s not all about you?”

Bucky starts to laugh. He can’t help it. “Sorry,” he says. “But I still think my awful past outranks anyone else’s.”

“Yeah, it probably does,” says Clint. 

Terrible past notwithstanding, he can’t just go around strangling his best friend. Just the thought of his hand around Steve’s throat makes him want to _die_. “I better go ‘pologise. Beg forgiveness.” 

“If it’s an apology he wants,” Clint says under his breath, so quiet that Bucky's not entirely sure he was supposed to hear it. 

“What’s that supposed to mean? I hurt him, he’s fucking upset that I just- 

“Is he though?” Clint says, seesawing his hand. 

Bucky rubs at his forehead. “Barton, you are making less fucking sense than usual,” he says. He drops his hand and starts heading down the stairs.

 _Find Steve,_ his brain says, sounding way too close to mission script. _Find Steve, apologise, administer first aid. Ignore denial of injury, apply ice for swelling and antiseptic for any lacerations-_

“-can’t be around him when I’m like this!”

He stops dead, hand on the bannister. That’s Steve’s voice he can hear downstairs, only through the blessing of his enhanced hearing.

“Will you calm down for a hot minute,” Sam replies. “What is it with you and making everything everything into a huge drama?”

“I’m serious,” Steve snaps. “I can’t be that close to him if this is what happens-”

Bucky feels his heart break. It starts with a strange disconnect, an utter inability to process what he’s hearing. Then, as it sinks in, he feels literally sick. He thinks about stopping, just sitting down right where he is and crying.

Instead, he makes his feet move and he runs.

He’s on Steve’s bike with the keys in hand by the time anyone catches up with him. Clint doesn’t bother trying to stop him, just skids to a halt in a cloud of dust next to the bike before leaping nimbly onto the back. 

“Saw you walking out,” he says breathlessly. “What happened?” 

Bucky replies by starting the bike and fucking gunning it. Clint lets out a yelp and grabs hold of him around his waist, clinging on tight. _Leave site,_ his mission brain says. _Retreat from site. Recalculate mission parameters._  

 _Stop_ , he tells himself desperately. That fucking Winter Soldier puzzle piece is causing nothing but goddamn trouble and he wants it _gone_.

He tells Clint as such when he finally decides to pull over, getting off the bike and sitting down right there on the side of the road. For once, Clint doesn't seem to have any wisecracks or jokes to volley back his way, just exhales a heavy sigh and sits down next to him. 

“I’d probably feel the same,” he says. “Attacking your friends is never fun.”

Bucky swallows hard. “I still think in mission script,” he blurts out. “Retreat, re-evaluate mission parameters, analyse new evidence.”

“New evidence?”

He doesn’t want to look at Clint as he says it, a hot lick of shame in his belly and throat. “Steve says that he can’t be around me when I’m like this.”

Clint looks taken aback. “What?” 

“Yeah.” Bucky ducks his head, wishing for his long hair to hide behind.

“Now that doesn’t compute,” Clint says. “And for what it’s worth, I think your mission script was right. I’d have run away and bought some time to think, too.” 

Bucky scrubs at his eyes with his fingers. “Every time I think I’m getting a handle on things, I fuck it up.”

“That’s not you, that’s life,” Clint says. He turns around, sprawls out on his back with his head on Bucky’s thigh. Far too safe and trusting really, but Bucky’s grown to not only tolerate but like human contact and he’s selfish enough to not deny himself that now. “Hey, you remember when I made that joke about your metal arm giving Steve a boner?” 

Bucky screws up his face, pained. “Far too vividly.”

“And when I said about you two being super snuggly in the truck?”

“Get to the point, Barton.”

 “I don’t think I was joking.” 

Bucky’s brain - all parts of it - come to a grinding halt. “What?”

“I said I wasn’t going to meddle in anyone’s love life ever, because me and Nat is like a nuclear train crash, but fuck it. Steve has a giant crush on you and that’s why he’s acting so weird.” 

“No,” Bucky says, automatic.

“Yes,” Clint replies. He’s deadly serious, Bucky can tell. That’s alarm bells as it is, Clint is never serious about _anything._ Except maybe pizza and Nat.

“He said-”

“Because maybe he can’t handle the depth of his romantical feelings for you?” 

“Bullshit. We’ve known each other for like a hundred years and he’s never once said anything. And Steve is a lot of things but he ain’t a liar. He’d tell the truth.” 

Clint opens his mouth, closes it again. Thinks for a while, then says, “I bet you a hundred bucks I’m right.”

“Have you missed the part where Steve is my only source of cash?”

Clint actually laughs. “Well then your sugar daddy can give me the hundred when it turns out I’m right.” 

“You are not right,” Bucky says adamantly. He’s thinking hard, furiously rifling through his filing cabinets of memories, trying to find any evidence that Clint is right-

_Iowa. Present day. Safehouse. Steve staring at Bucky as he climbs off of a motorbike, eyes dark and strange._

“No,” Bucky says aloud.

“Sure,” Clint agrees peaceably, then pats his knee. “We going back now or do I got time for a nap?” 

“Nap away,” Bucky says and Clint does, leaving Bucky alone with his thoughts.

 

* * *

 

They leave hours later, mostly because Bucky is starving and he’s fotgotten his cigarettes. Clint offers to ride back and Bucky lets him, throwing caution to the wind and trusting Clint to be in control for a while. He doesn’t drive as fast as Bucky, not by a wide margin, but he doesn’t hang about either. 

The closer they get the home, the more Bucky’s brain keeps replaying the memory of Steve staring at him like that, staring at him while lying on his back, pinned down by Bucky’s weight. He keeps trying to make those memories equal ‘Steve likes Bucky back,’ but everytime he does, he just gets the brain equivalent of a 404 error. 

There's no way. Bucky is a mess of a human being on a good day. No sane person should find that attractive. 

The yard is empty when they finally pull in. He pats Clint on the shoulder in silent thanks then slides off the back of the bike. As he does, he hears the crash of the screen door banging back against the wall, and Steve comes sprinting out of the house like it’s on fire. He’s going so fast he practically careers into Bucky, grabbing his elbows to either keep himself upright or keep Bucky from running. Jury’s out. 

“Buck, are you okay? God, you just took off and I panicked, I told you, I don’t give a damn about you grabbing me earlier-“ 

“You should,” Bucky says hoarsely, and jerks in surprise when Steve folds him into a hug, using enough force to make Bucky feel like he’s about to bruise a kidney.

“Okay, you two have some shit to talk about,” Clint says from behind them, amused and exasperated at once. “Don’t make me get Sam to mediate.” 

Steve lifts his head from Bucky’s shoulder. “Clint?” 

“Yeah?”

“Screw.” 

Clint cackles and salutes, walking away and throwing a thumbs up over his shoulder. Steve pushes Bucky back, holding him arms length away as he studies him. “I’m not gonna tell you that you need to tell me everything or tell me where you are all the time,” he starts. 

“You’re about to do a But,” Bucky interrupts.

Steve’s mouth hitches in the faintest echo of a smile. “You used to do it to me all the time,” he says. “‘Yes Steve, I understand why you got involved with that fight, but…’”

“Wow, rude. I do not sound like that.” 

Steve actually smiles. “Thought it was high time we switched it up a bit. Maybe I can tell you off for being compulsive and reckless.” 

“Do you even hear the words that come out of your mouth,” Bucky says. He reaches out, tweaks Steve’s nose. “Swear this is growing, Pinocchio.” 

“I ain’t lying,” Steve says, batting Bucky’s hand away.

“No, you’re just casually forgetting to mention who is the real compulsive and reckless one here.” 

“I’m a master tactician.”

“They ain’t mutually exclusive, pal.”

Steve throws his head back and laughs. Bucky feels his insides flutter; this is just so easy, so simple to be with Steve and feel relaxed, slipping back into their friendship like they’ve never been apart.

Though maybe they can’t slip completely back, Bucky thinks, his pulse quickening into a half-excited half-sick little thrum. If Clint is right…

He doesn’t dare think it.

“I mean it, Buck,” Steve says. Bucky blinks him back into focus, eyes on his stupid earnest handsome face. “We need to move past what happened. Work on a plan to...to keep us both safe.” 

Bucky’s fragile good mood shatters. He can still hear Steve’s angry voice. 

_I can’t be that close to him if this is what happens._

Winter Soldier would remain silent, gather more intel. James Buchanan Barnes would probably roll his eyes and tell Steve he was being a drama queen, not taking it seriously at all. 

Steve reaches out, squeezes Bucky’s shoulder. “We can talk about it later?We’re gonna have dinner outside tonight. You wanna maybe get changed, out on your new clothes? You didn’t go through all that in the store to not wear them.” 

Bucky considers it, then nods. Steve’s smile makes it seem like that was the correct answer, so Bucky takes the dismissal for what it is and quickly darts away to change into his new yoga-pants and henleys, discarding his button-down and slacks. 

He’s barely got his yoga pants up over his hip bones before he decides they are the best thing he has ever worn in his life. He is going to be wearing these for the rest of his days and he will fight anyone who says otherwise. Never mind his resolution to never fight again; some things are just worth it. 

He stares out of his eye window, sighing. Life as a real human being is hard. So complex. So many contradictions. He remembers writing _Steve is complicated_ in his notebooks, all that time ago. _True, past self,_ he thinks. _So, so true._

He deliberately files the thought as he makes his way downstairs. When he gets there, his attention is diverted by the fact all the goddamn chairs are floating out of the fucking door, carried by nothing more than red light.

“Sorry!” Wanda’s voice shouts from somewhere outside. “I’ll be done in a moment!” 

There’s a bang that makes Bucky jump, whipping around with his fist raised, but it’s just Sam and Clint trying to get the table out through the doorway, hitting the legs against the frame in the process. 

“Hey, I didn't spend three days reinforcing door frames for you to fuck them all up!” Bucky says. 

Clint laughs. “Well thanks to your reinforcing work, we can’t fuck them up. I could drive a truck into this baby and the door would win.”

“Let’s not test that,” Sam pants, bracing his shoulder against said frame. “Barton are you even lifting?” 

“Yeah I’m lifting,” Clint rolls his eyes. “Lifting more than you, birdman.” 

“Oh, birdman? Coming from you?” 

“Hawks clearly outrank falcons.” 

Bucky leaves them bickering and goes to see if he can help elsewhere. With everyone working together, it’s barely twenty minutes before they’re all sitting down outside. Clint has bought the speaker dock outside and there’s music and laughter and chatter drifting on the summer air. Bucky stalls on the deck, stack of plates in his hand, not entirely computing his reaction.

 _Friends_ , he thinks. _I’m among friends. No Hydra here. I am safe. I’m part of something._

“Buck, you coming?” Steve calls him over. There’s a space next to him, clearly intended for Bucky. Part of Bucky thinks no, that he isn’t going to sit there, that he doesn’t deserve to be taken in by this eclectic group. The rest of him wants it so badly that he can taste it.

He slides onto the bench next to Steve, hip to hip. Steve smiles at him like earlier never happened, like he never spoke to Sam about being scared of Bucky. Across the table, Sam reaches for the stack of plates, taking them with a nod. “Good to see you,” he says. “I worried for a bit that I knocked you out of commission yesterday.”

“You did,” Bucky says. “But I think I needed it.”

“Good,” Sam grins. “Tiptoeing around you was getting boring.”

“Sam,” Steve admonishes, already helping himself to food. “Go easy on him, we talked about this.” 

“No, you talked about this,” Sam retorts. “I told you, I’m not actually the group therapist.”

“No, you’re just here to bust our balls,” Steve grumbles.

“Now you’re getting it,” Sam grins, lifting his mug in an obvious victory sip. 

Down the other end of the table, Maria and Wanda are laughing delightedly at something; Fury is almost smiling and Coulson is looking heavenward for sanity. Bucky’s mouth curves in a smile too. He looks around to see what food he fancies - and what he can possibly stash away later - and catches Clint’s eye. Clint winks at him, then his eyes slide to Steve before he makes a not-at-all-discreet kissy face across the table.

Bucky throws a bread roll at him. 

“Jesus, Barnes,” Steve exclaims. “Your Ma raised you better than that.” 

“My Ma ain’t here,” Bucky says, still glaring at Clint, who doesn’t look remotely contrite, the bastard. “And last time I checked you weren’t my Ma either.” 

Steve gives him an indignant glare, which is not at all effective seeing as he’s just shoved half a quarter-pounder into his mouth.

Sam laughs. “Smooth, Rogers. Damn, where’s the salsa I made anyway? If I see you white boys putting mayonnaise on anything else I might just cry.” 

“I’ll get it,” Bucky says, already halfway off the bench. He can be useful. Helpful. He can be a nice person, even though he strangles his best friend and makes them say they’re too scared to be around him.

“Thanks,” Sam says, looking mildly taken aback. Steve’s looking at him too, strangely intense and thoughtful.

Bucky’s not sure what that look means so he bolts. Straight into the house, shutting the screen door behind him. What even is going on. One minute Steve is freaking out and the next he’s looking at Bucky like-

Like Bucky’s the best thing since rationing ended. Like he did that day after the motorbike, all dark and wanting. 

No. There’s _no way_ Clint is right, is there?   

Bucky feels all out of sorts again, off-balance. He wants to bang his head against the cupboards, honestly. He was fine, he was over it not ten minutes ago and now here he is, sliding back into that lost and dark frame of mind like he’s trodden in quicksand.

He tries to shake himself out of it. Looks for the bowl of salsa. Looks straight past it at the knife block that sits in the corner. He’s got one in hand before he even realises what he’s doing, fingers curled tight around the handle. He lifts it up, looks at the blade. Twirls it around in his fingers. 

 _Put it down,_ a voice in his head says. _No more violence._

He doesn’t. He tosses it to his other hand, holding it close like a security blanket, albeit sharper and less fluffy. 

“You taking up stabbing again, boy?”

He jolts, spins around, holding the knife up. It’s Fury, walking in and closing the screen behind him.

“No,” he says, swallowing hard. “I just.” 

“You’ve spent the better part of your life with a weapon in hand,” Fury says, heading to the fridge and pulling out another pitcher of iced tea. “Bet it feels real empty without one.”

Bucky nods. “I shouldn’t feel so comforted with a knife in hand.”

“I don’t think any of us are in place to deny you comfort,” Fury says. “As long as I can trust you to use that weapon to keep our guys safe.” 

“I wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

“What about a someone who tried to...oh I don’t know. Let’s say a someone who tried to hurt Rogers?” 

Bucky’s fingers tighten around the knife. He doesn’t have an answer. 

Fury doesn’t seem to need one. He just nods at Bucky like he’s made his point. “Well whatever helps you sleep at night,” he says. “I don’t think it’s important that you’ve got a weapon. I mean, your hand is a weapon in its own right.” 

Bucky glances at his left hand, clenching his fingers. Fury shakes his head. “That’s not what I meant. Rogers’ hands are weapons too. And I never for one minute underestimate what men like Wilson and Barton can do with their hands. And let’s not even start with Maximoff.”

“Wanda?” 

“She was built to be a weapon, a lot like you,” Fury says carefully. “Those red hands of hers could level a city if she felt like it. But she’s made the choice not to be scared of her weapons. She’s realised that it’s more important what she’s chosen to do with it.” 

The word rings true in Bucky’s brain, like the deep humming of a gong. “Choice,” he murmurs, slowly turning the blade over between his fingers. It feels smooth, easy, like something he’s been doing his entire life. 

“Yeah,” Fury says, more gently than Bucky thought he’d be capable of. “Not my choice, not Hydra’s, not Cap’s. Your choice.”

Bucky twirls the knife once, holds it tight in his hand. This is not what he would have done before. He’d never held a knife as a weapon before the war, and even then it’d never felt like this, like an extension of his own arm. He swallows hard. This is definitely something that’s come from him the puzzle piece labelled Winter Soldier, and he’s still really not sure that giving that piece any room to breathe is a smart idea.

Despite the alarm bells ringing, he carries on staring at the blade. “Won’t Coulson be annoyed if I take his kitchen knives?”

Fury stares at him and then slowly lifts his hand to cover his good eye. Bucky barks put a laugh and takes the cue to leave, holding the knife securely in hand. He needs a decent holder if he’s going to keep it with him. For now, he puts it under his pillow, then goes back outside to sit with the others. 

“I think we should go,” Steve is saying. Bucky sits back down, lighting a cigarette as he does. Steve wafts the smoke away with a distracted hand.

“Me too,” Clint adds. 

“Yeah, he’s a good man,” Sam adds. “And if he’s not signed the Accords we could do with him on side.” 

Bucky looks from Sam to Clint to Steve. “Are you planning something stupid?” 

“No,” Steve says.

“Yes,” Maria calls. “But we’re doing it anyway, apparently.”

“What is it?” 

“Scott Lang,” Steve says. “Ant man.”

“ _Ant_ man?” 

“Don’t even get us started,” Steve says, looking pained. “However dumb his name is, he’s a good Avenger. And we need to get him out of jail before Tony and Ross do.” 

“Surely if getting him out of jail is the plan, it doesn’t matter who does it?” 

“Stark and Ross will put him somewhere far worse,” Wanda says darkly. “They were planning to take me to the raft. They will take him there.” 

Maria slips an arm around Wanda’s shoulders in a half-hug. “We would have broken you out of anywhere,” she says. “The raft included.” 

“It’s an underwater prison,” Wanda says. “Built with titanium reinforced walls and doors that have biometric security.” 

“Piece of cake,” Steve shrugs. 

“Absolutely fuckin’ not,” says Bucky. “Jesus, why are we even talking about this?” 

Steve looks at him very calmly. “Because it’s the right thing to do.”

“Bullshit,” Bucky snaps. “You’re just bored so you’re picking a fight that has _nothing to do with you_.” 

“Scott is one of us.” 

“How many times have you even met this fuckin’ _Ant Man?_ ” 

Steve’s jaw clenches and Bucky feels a not-at-all satisfying stab of vindication.

“I’ve met him,” Sam says. “He’s a good guy.” 

“I fail to see how being a good guy makes him Steve’s problem.” 

“Is it Scott you’ve got a problem with or a problem with me going to help?” Steve asks. “Just because you’ve decided to stop fighting for what’s right doesn’t mean I have!”

“Steve-” 

“No, just-” Steve snaps, getting up. “I don’t have a problem with you suddenly playing at being a pacifist but I am not gonna sit by and do nothing, you hear me? No matter what Tony or the fuckin’ Accords or you say.”

He storms off. Bucky resists the urge to throw something at the back of his head.

“Well,” Clint says. “This is awkward.” 

Bucky looks around. Everyone is studiously not looking at him. Except Fury, who is looking exceptionally pleased. 

“Sorry,” Bucky says. “He’s been a reckless idiot since nineteen twenty-eight, I’m just used to yelling at him for it.” 

That at least makes people relax. Maria stifles a laugh and Sam looks relieved. Bucky drops his fork, gets up. 

“Good luck,” says Clint with a wink that’s about as subtle as a shotgun to the kneecaps. Bucky flips him off then heads in to find Steve. 

He’s quite predictably sitting on the edge of his bed, twisting his fingers together in the same nervous tell he’s had since he was a teenager. When he spots Bucky he stands up defensively, jaw clenching like he’s ready for round two. 

Well fuck it. So is Bucky. 

“You’re really not over having that shield taken off you, huh?”

Steve folds his arms over his chest. “I know what the right thing to do is without being Captain America.” 

“I know,” Bucky says. “But there’s a thin line between brave and stupid and you’re no tightrope walker.” 

“It’s not stupid.” 

“It is if you’re going off half cocked and angry,” Bucky says. “Look what happened when you went to get Wanda. You ended up in a beat down with Iron Man.”

Steve looks away, down at his shoes. He huffs out an annoyed breath. “I just don’t think you’re in any place to give me advice here. You’ve made it very clear that you won’t fight anymore.”

Bucky feels himself go tense. “Have you any idea what might happen if I joined a fight?” he asks. “I once killed a guy by literally cutting him in half. Knife in at his spine, straight up to his neck. I once shot a woman point blank. Point fucking blank, the barrel of my fucking gun pressed against her head. Mess got all over her husband and he pissed himself and passed out. I don’t fight with honour, or like you and your Avengers.”

“That’s not the point.” 

“It is the fucking point,” Bucky snaps, and strides out to retrieve the knife from under his pillow, waves it in Steve’s face. “How long did I last without finding weapons again, huh? Your pal made it very clear that the Winter Soldier is part of me still.”

“Yeah, as life experience that you can learn from!” Steve yells. “For gods sake, Buck. Just because you’ve got a knife in your hand doesn’t mean you’re suddenly going to go full Winter Soldier!”

“Bullshit,” Bucky says bitterly. “Yeah, it should be my choice what I do with this but the Winter Soldier was never given a choice. You yourself said that you can’t be around me when I’m like this.”

Steve goes very still. His voice drops to a strangled whisper. “You heard that?” 

“Yeah, I did. So actually, I don’t understand why you’ve been all okay with me since then!”

Steve opens his mouth but no words come out. An ugly red flush is working its way up his neck. “You weren’t supposed to hear that.” 

“Well I did. So let’s talk about that too, huh?” he says, reaching forwards and shoving Steve in the shoulder. “You’re running your mouth behind my back saying I’m too dangerous, then yellin’ at me in front of everyone for not wanting to fight?!”

Steve shoves him back. “I never said you were dangerous!” 

“You said you couldn’t be around me when-”

“When I’m like this!” Steve yells. “I said when _I’m_ like this!”

Bucky’s confused. “Like what?!”

Steve looks at him somewhat defiantly, a blush crawling up his neck. 

“I...you know I got so angry at you for trying to be the past you...it may have come to my attention that I may…well, I don’t have a problem with, maybe, um, maybe it’s like how people, I don’t know, people change?”

Bucky cuts off his awkward rambling, cringing a little. “Stop, just _stop_. This is like you trying to talk to a dame.”

“Yeah,” Steve says and swallows hard. “It is.” 

What?

 _Oh._  

And Bucky has been contemplating it, wanting it, dreaming of it for forever, but he’s still not ready for it. And he doesn’t have a fucking hundred bucks to give to Clint goddamn Barton.

“Uh,” he manages. 

Steve laughs, sounding strangled. “I am so gone for you, Buck,” he says. “But I never - I never liked you back when…” He’s getting agitated now. “I never saw you like that before. It’s only now that I-“ 

Oh god. He _does_ have a thing for the metal arm and surly attitude. Clint is never going to let him live this down. 

“You like me now, as I am now,” Bucky says quietly. 

This time, Steve’s laugh is completely devoid of humour. “And how fucked up does that make me? I was never attracted to you before, when...”

“When I was good and whole?”

Steve freezes, looking horrified. “Oh hell, that’s not what I meant, not at all. You’re not bad now, you’re different, and what you went through-” 

“Breathe,” Bucky says, slightly concerned that Steve’s going to burst something while trying to reassure Bucky. “Steve, it’s okay,” 

Steve jams the heels of his palms into his eyes. “It’s not okay. I’m fucking this up. I don’t understand why I suddenly…”

“Want to fuck me?” Bucky blurts out, surprising himself. 

When he pulls his hands away, Steve eyes are _so_ bright. Too bright. “Yeah,” he whispers. “Yeah. Why I want that, and why I want to have you close all the time, and want to be in the damn bed with you.” 

He’s working himself up now, Bucky can tell.

“And I’m so selfish, telling you to who to be because I like it better-“ 

Bucky steps forwards, stops Steve by placing both hands on his neck. “Stop,” he says. “I know you and I know you are not that selfish. Did you really tell me to stop trying to be who I used to for you?” 

Steve slowly shakes his head. “A little,” he finally says. “No. I honestly thought it wasn’t good for you to try and go back to that...but I didn’t want to be alone.”

“As long as I am breathing, you are not going to be alone,” Bucky says roughly, shaking Steve a little. “You hear me?” 

Steve clearly does, because he leans in a gently presses his mouth to Bucky’s. Bucky draws in a shocked breath against his mouth, wordless, and kisses him back.  



End file.
